The Bitterness at the Bottom of My Heart “You belong in care already—get out of our family!” I screamed in a cracking voice. The target of my fury was my cousin, James. Oh, how I loved him as a child! Wheat-blonde hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful nature—that was James. …Relatives often gathered around the dinner table for special occasions. Out of all my cousins, I singled out James. He could charm with his words, weaving stories like lace. He was also a gifted artist; some evenings, he’d sketch five or six pictures in one sitting. I’d be transfixed—enraptured by their beauty. Quietly, I’d collect his drawings and hide them in my desk, treasuring my cousin’s creativity. James was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, tragedy struck—his mum died in her sleep, unexpectedly. Then came the question: what to do with James? The search turned first to his biological father. That wasn’t simple; his parents had long since divorced. His father had another family and “didn’t want to disrupt their peaceful life.” After that, all the relatives shrugged: “We’ve got our own problems, our own families…” Turns out, relatives are easy to find in daylight, but disappear after sunset. So, with two kids of their own, my parents took James in. After all, his late mum was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was glad James would be living with us. But… On his very first day in our home, my favourite James’s behaviour unsettled me. Mum tried to comfort the orphan: “Do you want anything? Don’t be shy—just ask.” Immediately, James replied, “A train set.” Mind you, that was an expensive toy at the time. I was taken aback—your mum’s just died, and you’re thinking about a train set? How could you? But my parents bought him his dream toy, and that was just the beginning… “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the 1980s: not only were these things costly, they were hard to get. My parents, sacrificing for us, their own children, made sure the orphan’s wishes came true. My brother and I understood and didn’t complain. …When James turned sixteen, girls came along. My cousin turned out to be a hopeless romantic. Worse, he started pursuing me—his own cousin. But I played sport, and I could dodge his lecherous advances. We even fought over it. I would cry buckets. My parents never knew. Kids rarely share such things. After I pushed back hard, James swiftly turned to my friends, who—much to my annoyance—competed for his attention. …James also stole. Boldly, shamelessly. I remember saving my lunch money in a piggy bank for gifts for my parents. One day, it was empty! James denied everything—swore blind he didn’t take it. Didn’t blush, didn’t even seem embarrassed. My soul was in torment. How could he steal from us, from our own home? James was tearing apart our family. I sulked, upset; he genuinely couldn’t understand why I was so troubled—he thought we owed him everything. I grew to hate him. Finally, I screamed: “Get out of our family!” I remember lashing out at James with words, saying things you couldn’t fit in a hat… Mum barely calmed me down. From then on, James no longer existed for me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned that our other relatives knew what sort of “specimen” James was too. They lived nearby and had seen it all. Our family lived in another part of town. James’s former teachers warned my parents: “You’ve taken on a burden—James will ruin your own children.” …At his new school, he met Kate. She fell for James for life, marrying him right after school. They had a daughter. Kate endured his antics, lies, countless affairs. Like they say: single, she suffered, married, it doubled. James took full advantage of Kate’s devotion. …He was conscripted into the Army—served in Yorkshire. There, James started a “second” family. Don’t ask me how—it must have been during leave. After demob, James stayed in Yorkshire; he had a son there. Kate, never one for dithering, went to Yorkshire and managed, by hook or by crook, to bring her husband back home. My parents never heard a word of thanks from their nephew—not that they took him in for that anyway. …Now, James Edward is 60 years old. He’s a member of the Church of England. He and Kate have five grandchildren. By all accounts, all seems well, but the bitterness in my heart from my relationship with James lingers, even now… And not even honey can sweeten it.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 1

BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL

You belong in a boarding school, you menace! Get out of our family! I shrieked, my voice cracking from rage.

The lucky recipient of my righteous fury was my cousin, Peter.

Oh, how I adored him when I was little! Flaxen hair, forget-me-not blue eyes, and a cheeky grin you could spot at a hundred yardsthat was Peter all over.

Our family loved a good knees-up, so wed often gather around the table for birthdays, Christmases, and any excuse in between. Of all my cousins, Peter was my favourite. He could talk the hind leg off a donkey and happened to be a decent artist too. Hed dash off five or six sketches in a single eveningdogs in hats, cows in tutus, you name it.

Id go all gooey inside looking at them, and then, like Gollum with his precious, Id sneak the drawings away from prying eyes and lock them in my desk. I treasured Peters doodles, as if they held the secrets of the universe.

Peter was two years older than me.

When he was fourteen, tragedy struckhis mother (my dads younger sister) just… didnt wake up one morning. Now, what to do with Peter became the great family conundrum. They started by searching for his actual dad, which was no simple task since he and Peters mum had long been divorced. Peters father had a new wife and was most insistent about not upsetting the harmonious routine of his current family. Stunning, really.

Then the rest of the relatives shrugged in perfect unison, mouthing, Weve got our own troubles, you see… Apparently, during daylight theyd claim kinship, but come sundown, it was a game of hide and seekand they were experts.

So, with two children already, my parents took Peter in. After all, Peters late mother was my dads little sister. At first, I was actually pleased with this twistPeter would live with us! However…

On his very first day as part of our household, something about my once-adorable cousin struck me as, well… odd. My mum, desperately trying to comfort the heartbroken orphan, asked, Anything you fancy, Peter? Dont be shy.

Without batting an eyelid, Peter blurted out, A model train set.

Now, this thing cost a small fortune. I was secretly shocked: your mum just died, the most important person in your life, and what you want is a train set? How does that even work?

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, bought the blasted train. It set a precedent. Next up: Buy me a tape deck, and those new fancy jeans. Also a branded jacket. Keep in mind, this was the 1980s in Englandnone of this was easily found, and it sure wasnt cheap. Mum and Dad stretched every penny, pinching from my brother and me to make their orphaned charge happy. My brother and I, true English martyrs, grumbled only on the inside.

By the time Peter turned sixteen, girls became his new hobby. Turns out, my cousin was a one-man romance machine. Worse, he started flirting with meseriously, his own cousin! Lucky for me, I was on the school netball team and could duck, dodge, and thump with the best of them. More than once we ended up (literally) wrestling in the hallway. Id cry buckets afterward.

My parents didnt know any of thisI didnt want to upset them further. Besides, kids tend to keep these things under wraps.

When I made it clear Peter had no chance, he switched gears and started chasing after my friends. Strangely, they actually seemed to enjoy competing for his attention.

Oh, and he stole. Shamelessly. I had a piggy bank, painstakingly filled from lunch money Id squirrelled away to buy presents for Mum and Dad. One day, I went to check on my investment and found it empty. Peter denied everything, of coursehe could have taken first prize for barefaced lying. My heart actually hurt; how could someone pinch money from his own family? Peter was like some disaster that crashed through the house and left everything slightly askew. I sulked for weeks, while Peter genuinely couldnt see what the fuss was abouthe figured everyone owed him. Thats when I finally blew my top and yelled:

Get out of our family!

I let Peter have it with both barrels, said things I couldnt take back if Id tried. My mother could barely calm me down. After that, Peter stopped existing for me. I went out of my way to ignore him.

Eventually, we learned that the rest of the family already knew Peter was a bad applethey lived nearby and saw it all. Wed been living in blissful ignorance in another part of town.

Even Peters teachers tried to warn my folks: Youre taking on more trouble than its worth. Hell bring your other children down with him.

At his next school, Peter met a girl named Florence. She would love him forever, and marry him straight after their A-levels. Theyd have a daughter. Florence would put up with everythinghis endless lies and perpetual affairs. As the saying goes, single life, single strife; married life, double the trouble.

For the rest of his life, Peter would happily ride the wave of Florences undying affection.

Peter eventually got drafted into the military and was posted off to Scotland. There, he managed to acquire a side family during his leaveclassic Peter. After he left the service, he stayed in Scotland. He had a son there, after all.

Florence, not one to be easily deterred, followed him north and somehow convinced him to come back homegoodness knows how.

My parents never did receive so much as a thank you from Peterthough thats not why they took him in.

Now, Peter John Evans is sixty years old. Hes a regular at the village church, and he and Florence have five grandchildren.

Everything seems fine now, but the bitterness from our familys history with Peter still clings to my memory.

Honestly, I wouldnt eat honey with him if he served it on silver spoons.

He Hated His Wife. He Hated Her… They Had Spent 15 Years Together. For 15 Whole Years, He Saw Her Every Morning, But Only in the Past Year Had Her Habits Begun to Drive Him Mad—Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” Simple Words, Yet Her Thin Hands and Sleepy Face Filled Him with Disgust. She Would Rise, Gaze Out the Window for a Few Moments, Take Off Her Nightdress, and Head to the Bathroom. Once, at the Start of Their Marriage, He Had Admired Her Body and That Freedom That Borderlined on Indecency. Even Now, Though Her Figure Remained Lovely, the Sight of Her Nakedness Filled Him with Rage. Once, He Even Wanted to Push Her to Hurry Her “Waking-Up Process,” But He Only Managed to Bark, “Hurry Up, I’ve Had Enough!” She Didn’t Rush Through Life. She Knew of His Affair and Even Knew the Girl He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Had Scabbed Over the Wounds to Her Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sadness. She Forgave His Anger, Indifference, and Foolish Attempts at Recapturing His Youth, But She Refused to Let Anyone Rush Her Life, Savoring Every Minute. That Was How She’d Lived Since Discovering Her Illness. Month by Month, It Was Devouring Her. The First Urge Was to Tell Everyone About Her Fate, Parse the Brutal Truth Into Pieces to Share with Family. But After Spending Those First Terrifying Days Alone, Contemplating Her Mortality, She Decided to Keep Her Secret. As Life Slipped Away, She Gained a Kind of Wisdom, Learning to Simply Observe. She Found Solace in a Little Village Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Away, Where She’d Disappear Between Bookshelves Labelled “Mysteries of Life and Death” and Seek Answers in Books. He Came to His Lover’s House—Warm, Bright, Familiar. They’d Been Together Three Years, Bound by an Obsessive Love that Saw Him Burning with Jealousy One Moment and Humiliated the Next, Unable to Breathe Away from Her Young Body. Today, He Made up His Mind: Divorce. Why Torture All Three of Them? He No Longer Loved His Wife—He Couldn’t Even Remember Liking Her. He Fished Out Her Photo from His Wallet and Tore It to Shreds, a Symbol of His Decision. They Agreed to Meet in a Restaurant—The Same Where They’d Celebrated Their 15th Anniversary Six Months Before. She Arrived First. He, Meanwhile, Stopped at Home to Hunt for the Divorce Papers, Tearing Through Drawers in a Frenzied Search. There He Found a Dark Blue Sealed Folder He’d Never Noticed. He Tore It Open, Expecting Anything—Even Blackmail Photos. But Instead, He Found Medical Reports and Official Hospital Documents, All with Her Name. Like a Jolt of Electricity, Realization Hit: She Was Seriously Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis, Reading the Chilling Prognosis: “6 to 18 Months.” He Checked the Dates—She’d Been Tested Six Months Ago. The Only Thing That Echoed in His Mind Was, “6 to 18 Months.” She Waited Forty Minutes at the Restaurant. No Answer to Her Calls. She Paid and Left. It Was a Glorious Autumn Day; The Sun Warmed the Soul. “How Beautiful Life Is, How Wonderful to Be on This Earth, with the Sun and the Woods.” For the First Time Since Learning of Her Illness, She Felt Sorry for Herself. Somehow, She’d Managed to Keep Her Terrible Secret from Husband, Family, Friends. She’d Tried to Give Them Peace, Even at the Cost of Her Own Happiness. Soon, All That Would Remain of Her Would Be a Memory. As She Walked, She Saw the Hope and Anticipation in People’s Eyes—Winter Coming, and Then After, Surely, Spring! She Would Not Have That Again. The Injustice Boiled Over in a Torrent of Tears… Back Home, He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt Physically Overwhelmed by the Fragility of Life. He Remembered His Wife as She’d Been, When They Were Young and Hopeful. He Realized He Had Loved Her Then, That Their 15 Years Had Vanished in an Instant, and That Maybe, Just Maybe, Everything Was Still Ahead—Happiness, Youth, Life… In Her Final Days, He Became Devoted, Never Leaving Her Side, Transformed by a Newfound Love and Terror at Losing Her. He Would Have Traded Places with Her, If Only It Could Save Her. If Anyone Reminded Him That Just A Month Before He’d Loathed Her And Planned Divorce, He’d Have Said, “That Wasn’t Me.” He Saw Her Struggle to Let Go, Saw Her Crying at Night When She Thought He Slept. He Understood: There Is No Worse Punishment Than Knowing the Date of Your Own End. He Watched Her Fighting for Life, Grasping to Even the Most Delusional Hopes. She Died After Two Months. He Covered the Path from Home to Grave with Flowers and Wept Like a Baby as Her Coffin Was Lowered, Aging a Thousand Years in a Single Day… At Home, Under Her Pillow, He Found a Note, a Wish She’d Written on New Year’s Eve: “To Be Happy With Him for the Rest of My Days.” People Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True. Maybe It’s True—That Same Year, He’d Written: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, For So Long, They Thought They Wanted…

014

A Husband Worth More Than Bitter Grievances “Igor, that was the last straw! That’s it, we’re getting divorced! And don’t bother dropping to your knees this time—it won’t work!” With a final flourish, I ended our marriage. Naturally, Igor didn’t believe me. My husband was sure things would play out as they always did: he’d kneel, beg forgiveness, buy me yet another ring, and all would be forgiven. It had worked before, more than once. But this time, I was determined to break the chains of wedlock for good. My fingers—pinky included—were weighed down with rings, but my life had felt empty. Igor had begun to drink more heavily and more often. And yet, it all had started as a romance. My first husband, Eddie, disappeared without a trace. That was during the rough and tumble 1990s—a frightening time. Eddie hadn’t exactly been easy to live with. He always seemed to be looking for trouble. As they’d say, “eyes like a hawk, wings like a sparrow.” If things didn’t go his way, all hell would break loose. I’m sure he was killed in some back-alley dispute. I never heard from him again. I was left with two daughters: Lizzie, five, and Rachel, just two. Five years passed after his mysterious disappearance. I thought I’d go mad—I had truly loved Eddie, despite his temper. We were inseparable. I was sure my life was over, that I’d simply raise my daughters and forget my own happiness. But fate had other plans… Those were tough times. I worked in a factory, where “pay” had become a pile of toasters and irons. On weekends, I sold them down at the market, just to put food on the table. One freezing winter’s day, as I shivered selling irons, a stranger approached me with real concern. “Are you cold, love?” he asked gently. “However did you guess?” I managed a weak joke, though my teeth chattered. But his presence warmed me up somehow. “Sorry, silly question. Why don’t we get you a hot cuppa? I can help you carry these if you like.” “Deal,” I croaked. “Otherwise, I’ll freeze to death out here.” We never did make it to a café. I took this stranger—Igor, he introduced himself—closer to my flat and asked him to wait at the entrance while I picked up my girls from nursery. My legs felt numb from the cold, but inside, I was already thawing. When I returned, kids in tow, I saw him from a distance, pacing and smoking. I thought, “I’ll offer him some tea at home—and then, whatever happens, happens!” Igor helped bring the irong-laden bag up all six flights of stairs—no working lift, of course. By the time I reached the third floor with my girls, Igor was already on his way back down. But I stopped him. “Hold on, my rescuer. You’re not leaving until I’ve given you some proper tea!” I grabbed his sleeve with my icy hand. “Are you sure? Won’t I be in the way with the kids?” “Not at all! Here, take the girls’ hands, I’ll dash ahead and get the kettle on,” I assured him. I didn’t want to lose him. While we chatted over tea, Igor even offered me a job as his assistant. The pay was better than a year’s worth of irons from the factory! I nodded gratefully, honestly wanting to kiss his hands for such an offer… Igor, as it turned out, was separated and in the midst of a divorce, with a son from his first marriage. Before long, we were married. He adopted my girls, and life felt like a constant dance. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with luxury furniture and gadgets, then built a country house. We spent every summer by the seaside. Life was a cherry on top of a cake… Seven years of bliss passed. Perhaps, after reaching the top, Igor turned increasingly to drink. At first, I didn’t react. After all, he worked hard and needed to unwind. But when he started to drink at work, I grew uneasy. Nothing worked to stop him. Now, I should mention—I’m a bit of a daredevil. To distract Igor from the booze, I decided to… have another child with him. I was already thirty-nine. My friends just laughed when I told them. “Go for it, Tanya! Maybe we’ll all become mums at forty!” I’d always say, “If you get rid of a baby, you’ll regret it forever. But if you have a child, even unexpected, you’ll never be sorry.” Igor and I ended up with twins. Suddenly, we were raising four daughters! But Igor kept drinking. Eventually, craving peace and a return to nature, I convinced him to sell the flat and the house, and move to a village. We opened a lovely café. Igor became an avid hunter, buying guns and all the gear. There was plenty of game nearby. Things were okay—until Igor had another serious binge. I don’t know what was in his drink that night, but he went berserk! Smashed all the china and furniture, then came for us, firing his shotgun into the ceiling! The girls and I ran to hide at a neighbour’s. It was a nightmare. The next morning, it was deathly quiet. We crept home, but the scene was grotesque. Everything broken; nowhere to sit, eat, or sleep. Igor lay passed out on the floor. I gathered what little we had left and led my daughters to my mum’s house. She lived nearby. “Oh Tanya, what are you going to do with all these girls?” she lamented. “Go back to your husband. Families go through tough times—it’ll all be ground to flour in the end.” Mum was old-school: best keep your man, no matter the cost. A few days later, Igor showed up. That’s when I finally ended things. Oddly, he couldn’t remember a thing of his “performance.” He thought I was making it up. But I was done. I cut all ties. Burned my bridges. I had no idea how we’d live, but it was better to go hungry and be alive, than end up killed in a drunken rage. We sold the café cheaply and got out of town. We moved to the next village, to a tiny house. The older girls found jobs, and eventually both married. The twins were in year five. All of them loved Dad Igor, kept in touch, and kept me up to date with his life. Igor begged me to take him back through the girls. They pleaded, “Mum, give it a rest. Dad’s so sorry—think about yourself, you’re not twenty-five anymore.” But I stayed firm. I wanted calm, uneventful days. Two years went by. Then I started to miss Igor. Loneliness ate away at me. All those rings he gave me, I had to pawn; never managed to buy them back. I missed the life we’d had. There had been love in our house. Igor had loved all our girls, was genuinely sorry, a good husband when sober. What more could I want? Now even my eldest daughters only called—they never visited. Time passes, and the young have their lives. My twins would soon grow, and I’d be left alone. Daughters, like goslings—feathered up and quick to fly the nest. So, I prompted the twins to ask their dad about his life. Any new woman on the scene? They found out he was living and working in another city, sober as a judge, and single. Left them his address… just in case. Long story short, we’ve been back together for five years now. I did say I was a bit of an adventurer…