The Cat’s Silent Gaze: How Anna Found Magic, Friendship, and Unexpected Luck on Her Bus Route—A Heartwarming Tale of Leather Jackets, Lost Tickets, and a Cat Named Merlin

Author Walton MerrittReading 13 minViews 3

The cat regarded me in silence. Drawing in a long breath and mustering my courage, I reached out, hoping the leather sleeves of my jacket would save my arms from the claws of this mysterious, ticketless fluffball.

My shift had just finished, and I walked to the back of the bus, carefully peering beneath each seat.

This bus was like a second home to me, and I kept it as neat as my own flat. Maybe that was because, at home, there was never anyone to make a mess besides me.

“Anna, you really ought to find yourself a bloke,” the older women in dispatch always told me. “You’re nearly thirty and still on your own. Besides, driving a bus isn’t much of a woman’s jobhalf the lads don’t have the patience for it, what with the kind of passengers you get these days!”

“I’m lucky,” I’d reply. “My passengers are all right, and I happen to love the job. Besides, a man isn’t a cat or a dog you go and fetch, is he?”

The women would exchange knowing glances. They, of all people, knew men were far more trouble than any pet with a tail.

“Well then, get yourself a cat,” theyd insist. “At least you wont be alone!”

I would simply sigh. “A cat hasnt found its way to me yet,” I’d tell them before returning home, putting on some music, making myself supper, reading a book, and turning in for the night.

The days blurred together in their sameness. Weekends were the worst, too much free time to fill. On such days I would board a bus and ride through town as a passenger for once, enjoying the sensation of being carried towards a happier, brighter future by someone else.

This day was just as ordinary as any other. After my shift, I checked over the seats, tidying as I went.

Looking under the back seat, I recoiled with a jolt. Two bright eyes stared back at me.

“Oi there, who are you? Here, puss, puss, puss! How on earth did you get there?” I knelt down. “You lost, then?”

The cat didnt answer, just watched me in that inscrutable feline way.

I sighed and, rallying myself, reached in, hoping my jacket would spare me a scratching from the furry stowaway.

To my surprise, the cat let me lift him out with no protest. Now I could get a proper look at him.

He was rather magnificent.

I didn’t know much about breeds, but the flattened little face and lavish coat suggested he was a Persian. Around his neck hung a collar with a tag.

Merlin, I read, turning the cat this way and that. Not THE Merlin, surely? The great enchanter himself?

Merlin yawned as if to suggest hed neither confirm nor deny.

“And what are we to do with you, Your Magical Highness?” I said, deciding that such a gloriously-named cat deserved proper manners. “Any idea where to find your owner?”

Merlin just looked at me and yawned again, as if to say, “How should I know? Wouldn’t mind a bite to eat, though. Rather fancy a nap too, come to think.”

Clearly, my choice was made for me. Really, there were two choices, but what sort of person throws a lost animal out onto the street?

“All right then,” I resolved. “Youll spend tonight at mine. Tomorrow, Ill print up some notices with your picture. Im sure someones missing you, and worried sick to boot!”

The cat made no objections. But when I headed for the exit, he started wriggling out of my arms.

“Whats the matter?” Not that I spoke cat, but Merlin hopped from my arms and trotted back under the seat, emerging with something held delicately in his teeth.

“What have you got there?” I asked, bending down.

He dropped the object into my waiting hand.

It was a lottery ticket.

“Well, I never!” I inspected the slip. “So your owner managed to lose both you and their ticket in one go?”

The cat yawned againsuggesting, perhaps, that getting home might be a more pressing concern.

I hurried then, mind racingshould I mention the lottery ticket on the flyers? Someone unscrupulous might try to claim him just for the ticket!

Best play it clever. Meanwhile, Id need to buy some treats for my guest.

“What are you partial to?” I mused aloud in the shop, bewildered by shelves of cat food.

Merlin surveyed the packets and nudged one with his nose, prompting me closer.

“This one, is it?” I checked.

He chomped the packet with his teeth, and that settled it.

“You’re a clever one, aren’t you!” I praised.

He made a chirr, as if to say, Im well aware. After picking up a few things for myself, we headed back to my flat.

“Make yourself at home!” I said, setting him down.

Merlin immediately set about exploring. I headed to the kitchen to prepare his dinner, improvising with a couple of saucers for food and water since I had no pet bowls.

When hed finished eating, I snapped his picture and printed off my Missing Cat flyers. I said nothing about his name or about the lottery ticket.

I held up the draft for Merlins inspection. Look at you! Dashing as ever. Ill hang this in the bus tomorrow, maybe your people will see itoh!

Suddenly I realisedtomorrow was my shift. Where would I put the cat?

I couldnt bring him on the busdistraction is no good for a driver and safety comes first. But leaving him alone after hed only just been found? Too cruel.

Then I thought of Chris, my neighbour across the hall. He worked from homenever stuck in an office or out driving all day. Anything he needed, really, was a laptop and some Wi-Fi.

We’d only ever bumped into each other in the hallwayhe was tall, a bit dishevelled, always wearing glasses.

A nod here, a nod there, and off on our separate ways. But Chris definitely seemed up to pet-sitting.

So, mustering my nerve, I knocked on his door. Chris answered, tousled, wearing an old pair of joggers and slippers, looking a bit surprised to see me.

I explained, trying not to sound too desperate. But he barely hesitated, simply nodded, and took my spare key.

For a moment I felt faintly miffed that he paid so little attention to me, but I shrugged it off, went home, and called out, Puss, puss! Merlin, where are you?

Merlin was by the balcony door, making it very clear he wanted out.

I hesitated a second, then judged that such an intelligent cat surely wouldnt leap from the eighth floorand opened the door.

Merlin hopped up on the railing and I gasped, darting over to steady him.

He looked at me, faintly smug, before turning his head skyward. Stroking his fur, I followed his gaze upthere were the stars, glimmering like a thousand eyes.

Just then, a shooting star streaked across the sky, like a silver tear.

Merlin nudged my hand, as if to say, Go on then, make a wish! So I did.

I slept the moment my head hit the pillowno books, no films, just the low lull of Merlin purring at my side.

The next morning, after giving Chris a few sleepy instructions, I headed to work.

I drove the bus around town all day with Merlins flyer on display, but no one took any interest in my mysterious passenger.

I felt a bit guilty for being glad, but the truth was, I couldnt wait to get home.

Inside, the flat smelled of proper coffee. I only ever drank instant, so the rich aroma caught me off guard.

I did a bit of brewing, Chris confessed. Dont take it the wrong way, but your coffees dire. I brought my ownfancy a cup?

“Would love one!” I smiled brightly. “Wheres Merlin?”

Immediately, Merlin appeared in the corridor, looking most satisfied. He wove around my legs, the very picture of contentment.

Your Merlin is just fine, Chris said, bending down to stroke him. You know, I havent relaxed like this in ages. Tried to do some work, but ended up writing a story about a cat insteadhavent done that in years.

Ooh, will you show me? I asked.

Oh, its nothing really, he replied, feigning reluctance, but clearly eager for someone to read it.

Of course I want to see! I love storiesespecially fantasy ones! Theyre practically the same thing, arent they? I insisted.

Chris relented.

After that, we sipped delicious coffee and read his story together, while Merlin sat nearby, overseeing everything with a tolerant, superior air.

I quite enjoyed the story. When Chris eventually left for his flat, I felt a peculiar sadness, though I reminded myselfnot entirely alone. I still had Merlin.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Merlins ears flicked up and he sauntered regal and unhurried to the entryway. I called out, “Whos there?”

“About the advert,” a voice answered. My heart clenched.

My first instinct was to ignore it, but that wouldnt be right. Opening the door, I saw an elderly man, tall and wrapped in a long, black coat. He smiled kindly.

Dont be alarmed, my dear. Im here for the cathis name is Merlin, isnt it? Here he is!

In a flash, Merlin leapt into the old mans arms, leaving no doubt as to their connection.

“Come in,” I said in a rather small voice.

I felt on the verge of tears. How do you grow fond of a cat in a single day? The man stepped in, took in the room, smiled quietly, andso it seemedshared a knowing look with Merlin.

Would you make me a cup of coffee? he asked gently.

Glad that Chris had left some of his blend in the pretty tin, I made us each a cup. Throughout, man and cat regarded one another as if sharing secret thoughts.

The silence broke as he asked, By the way, did you happen across anything else?

A blush crept up my cheeks. I produced the lottery ticket and offered it to him, but he pushed my hand aside.

Thats for you, he smiled.

But… its yours! I protested.

But you found it, and besidesMerlin doesnt seem to object, he said with a twinkle.

What if its a winner? I worried aloud.

He regarded me. Youd refuse even the possibility of a bit more happiness in your life?

His words hit home. It was, after all, the very thing Id wished for on that shooting star.

Let happiness in, my dear, he said softly. And dont be sad! I expect well meet againonce youve returned.

Returned from where? I meant to ask, but he was already gone, having shut the door quietly behind him.

As though by magic, the key turned in the lock on its own, and as sleep crept over me, I barely made it to bed before drifting offdreaming of the story Chris had written.

It was about a mighty wizard whod cared for no one but himself. None of his spells had ever made anyone else happy, and in punishment, hed been turned into a cat, doomed to wander the earth in that form until his magic was truly broken.

The next morning, I went back to work, yet the sun shone brighter than usual, passengers seemed cheerier, and the bus fairly skipped along the roads.

Yes, I checked the lottery ticketand wasnt surprised at all to discover Id won a seaside holiday. What really amazed me was when the boss said:

Take a proper break now, Anna. Well overdue. The ladsll cover the route, dont worry!

After that came the briny smell of the waves, the sparkle of stars, and a sense of being utterly renewed.

I came home happier than I could remember, bringing back a handful of shells and a sense that the sea itself now lapped quietly within my soul.

As I opened my door, Chris stepped into the halltall, slightly awkward, and still rumpled as ever.

Someone came round to see you yesterday, he told me. They left something He paused, really looking at me for the first time. Youre different. And… beautiful.

Thank you, I smiled. What did they leave?

Chris slapped his forehead and ducked into his flat, returning with a small, fluffy grey kitten in his armsa kitten whose haughty little face looked very familiar.

Then again, perhaps thats something all Persians share.

Hes the son of your old catthe one from the bus. His names Arthur. The old man said that Merlin and he could only trust you to look after him, Chris faltered a little, Wellactually, he put it a bit differently…

How? I asked, my heart pounding.

He said theyd only trust us with Arthur, Chris admitted.

Miaow! the kitten Arthur added, reaching out to his new family.

I reached for himmeeting Chriss hand halfway. And in that moment, the world felt just a touch warmer, a bit kinder, and a whole lot brighter.

Sometimes, what you set out to find isnt nearly as important as whator whofinds you. And letting a little happiness in can change everything.

“You Don’t Need to Sit at the Table – You’ll Be Serving Us!”: How Living with My Mother-in-Law Made Me Lose Myself Until I Finally Spoke Up I stood by the stove in the quiet morning kitchen—rumpled pyjamas, messy hair. The aroma of toast and strong coffee filled the air. My 7-year-old daughter sat on a stool, nose deep in her sketchbook, carefully drawing colourful swirls with felt-tip pens. “Are you making those diet toasts again?” came a voice behind me. I jumped. It was my mother-in-law, face of stone, her robe perfectly tied, hair in a tight bun, lips pursed. “Yesterday I had to eat whatever I could find!” she continued, snapping her tea towel on the table. “No soup, nothing decent. Can you make eggs properly? Like a normal person, not your… modern nonsense!” I turned off the hob and opened the fridge, a tight spiral of anger in my chest. But I swallowed it. Not in front of the child. Not in this home, where every inch reminded me: “You’re only here temporarily.” “It’ll be ready in a minute,” I forced out, turning away so she wouldn’t see my voice shaking. My daughter focused on her drawing, but watched her grandmother from the corner of her eye—quiet, tense, alert. “We’ll Stay with My Mum—for a Bit” Moving in with my mother-in-law sounded logical at the time. “It’s just for a little while—two months max. She lives close to work, and we’re waiting on the mortgage. She’s fine with it.” I hesitated—not out of conflict, but because I knew the truth: two grown women in one kitchen is a minefield. And my mother-in-law was someone with a compulsive need for order, control, and moral judgement. But there was little choice. Our old flat sold fast; the new one wasn’t ready. So the three of us moved into her two-bedroom flat. “Just temporarily.” Rules, Rules, and More Rules For the first few days, she was polite, even adding an extra chair for the child and treating us to pie. But by day three, the “house rules” appeared. “In my house, there’s order,” she declared at breakfast. “Everyone up by eight. Shoes only in the rack. Grocery shopping must be agreed. And keep the telly down—I’m very sensitive to noise.” My husband just smiled: “Mum, it’s only for a little while. We’ll manage.” I nodded silently. But the word “manage” started to sound like a sentence. Day by Day, I Disappeared A week passed. Then another. The rules grew stricter. She removed my daughter’s drawings from the table: “They’re in the way.” She took off the checked tablecloth I’d put on: “Impractical.” My cereal disappeared from the cupboard: “Old, probably off.” My shampoos found themselves relocated: “They’re cluttering up my place.” I felt more like a silent servant than a guest. My food was “wrong.” My habits, “unnecessary.” My child, “too noisy.” My husband kept saying, “Just put up with it—this is Mum’s house. She’s always been like this.” And bit by bit, I lost myself. Living by Someone Else’s Rules Every morning, I rose at six to claim the bathroom first, make porridge, get the child ready, and stay out of my mother-in-law’s firing line. Each evening I made two dinners: one for us, and one “done properly” for her. No onions. Then with onions. Then only in her pot. Then only in her pan. “I’m not asking much,” she’d say disapprovingly. “Just for things to be done properly.” The Day the Humiliation Went Public One morning, as I’d just finished washing my face and boiling the kettle, she breezed into the kitchen as if it was perfectly natural. “My friends are coming round, two o’clock. You’re at home so you’ll set the table—pickles, salad, a little something for tea. Simple.” “Erm… I didn’t know, and—” “You’ll shop. Here’s the list. It’s nothing complicated.” So, off I went to the shop. Bought everything—chicken, potatoes, dill, apples for pie, biscuits… Came home and cooked nonstop. By two, the table was set, chicken roasted, salad fresh, pie golden. Enter three elderly ladies—prim, permed, and perfumed from another era. But I saw it instantly: I wasn’t part of the party—I was the waitstaff. “Come here, love—sit by us and serve,” my mother-in-law beamed. “To serve you?” I echoed. “So what? We’re old. It’s easy for you.” And there I was again: fetching, carrying, serving. “Pass the tea.” “More sugar.” “We’re out of salad.” “The chicken’s a bit dry,” one grumbled. “You’ve burnt the pie,” another added. I gritted my teeth. Smiled. Collected plates. Poured tea. No one asked if I wanted to sit. Or take a breath. “How wonderful, having a young lady about!” my mother-in-law crooned. “She keeps everything running!” And that was the moment something in me snapped. That Night, I Told the Truth When they left, I washed up, packed away leftovers, washed the tablecloth. I sat on the edge of the sofa, mug in hand, the night closing in. The child slept in a ball. My husband, glued to his phone. “Listen…” I began, quiet but firm, “I can’t go on like this.” He looked up, surprised. “We’re strangers here. I’m just here to serve, and you… do you see that?” He said nothing. “This isn’t a home. This is me, constantly adjusting, silenced. I’m not doing any more months like this. I’m sick of being convenient and invisible.” He nodded—slowly. “I get it… I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. We’ll look for a place. Any place. As long as it’s our own.” And we started searching that very night. Our Home—No Matter How Small The flat was tiny. The furniture was old. The floor squeaked. But the moment I stepped in, I felt light for the first time. Like I’d finally found my voice. “We made it,” my husband sighed, dropping our bags. My mother-in-law said nothing. Didn’t even try to stop us. I wasn’t sure if she was offended, or just realised she’d gone too far. A week passed. Mornings began with music. The child drew on the floor. My husband made coffee. And I smiled at it all. No stress. No rush. No more “just put up with it.” “Thank you,” he said one morning as he hugged me. “For speaking out.” I looked him in the eye: “Thank you for listening.” Life wasn’t perfect. But it was our home. With our rules. Our noise. Our life. And it was real. Would you have lasted “just for a bit”—or would you have walked out after the first week?

Strangers in Our Flat Katie was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside drifted the sound of the television, voices in the kitchen, and an unfamiliar smell. Behind her, Max nearly dropped his suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” Katie whispered, holding out her hand. “There’s someone in there.” On their favourite beige sofa sprawled two complete strangers. A man in tracksuit bottoms flicked through TV channels, while next to him, a plump woman sat knitting. The coffee table held mugs, plates with crumbs, various medicines. “Excuse me, who are you?” Katie’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, entirely unembarrassed. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman said, barely pausing her knitting. “We’re Linda’s relatives. She gave us the key, said the owners were away.” Max paled. “Linda who?” “Your mum,” the man finally stood up. “We’re from Yorkshire—here with Michael for some tests. She let us stay, said you wouldn’t mind.” Katie walked into the kitchen. At the stove stood a teenager, frying sausages. The fridge was full of someone else’s food. The table was stacked with dirty dishes. “And who are you?” she managed. “Michael,” the boy turned. “Isn’t it allowed? Grandma Linda said it was fine.” She returned to the hallway, where Max was reaching for his phone. “Mum, what on earth have you done?” His voice, quiet but furious. From the speaker came her mother-in-law’s cheery reply: “Maxie, you’re back? How was your trip? Listen, I gave the keys to Sue and Victor―they’re up in London with Michael for the doctor. Figured, well, your flat’s empty, why let it go to waste? It’s only for a week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why would I? You weren’t there! Just tell them I’m responsible and everything will be tidy.” Katie grabbed the phone. “Linda, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?” “Strangers? What strangers? Sue is my cousin! We shared a bed as kids.” “And what has that got to do with OUR flat?” “Oh, Katie, don’t make a fuss. They’re family. They’ll be no trouble. The boy’s not well, they needed help. Or are you really that cold?” Her husband took the phone back. “Mum, you’ll be here within the hour to collect them. All of them.” “But Maxie, they’re meant to stay till Thursday! Michael’s got appointments. They’d booked a hotel. I helped save them money…” “Mum. One hour. Or I call the police.” He hung up. Katie slumped on the ottoman, face in hands. Their suitcases were still packed. From the living room the telly blared; in the kitchen, sausages sizzled. Only two hours ago they’d been on the plane, dreaming of coming home. Now she was a guest in her own home. “We’ll pack up,” the woman from the living room appeared, apologetic. “Linda thought you wouldn’t mind. We’d have asked, but didn’t have your number. Linda offered, we just agreed. Planned a week for all the hospital things” Max stood silent by the window, shoulders rigid—just as when the topic was his mother and he didn’t know what to say. “And where’s our cat?” Katie suddenly remembered. “What cat?” “Milo. The ginger. That’s why you had the keys!” “No idea,” Sue shrugged. “Haven’t seen a cat.” Katie searched and found the cat wedged under the bed, fur on end, eyes wide. He hissed when she reached out. “Milo, love,” she lay on the floor, “It’s me. It’s all right now.” He stared warily. The room smelled strange. Medicines sat on her bedside table. The bed was made but not her way. Someone else’s slippers were on the carpet. Max knelt next to her. “Sorry.” “For what? You didn’t know.” “For mum. For her being like this.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” he fumed. “Remember when we first moved in, and she’d just turn up without warning? I thought I got the message across…” Voices in the hall. Linda had arrived, all outrage. “Max, what’s all this nonsense?” “Mum, sit down,” he gestured. “Sit? Sue, Victor, pack up—we’re being thrown out. You’ll stay at mine.” “Mum. Sit. Please.” Linda, realising her son’s stony face, subsided. The three went to the kitchen, where Michael was finishing his sausages. “Explain to me, mum, how you thought it was OK to let people into our flat without so much as a text?” “I was helping! Sue rang—Michael’s ill, they were coming to London, nowhere to stay. I knew the flat was empty.” “But it’s not your flat.” “How’s it not? I’ve got keys, haven’t I?” “Keys for feeding the cat. Not to run a B&B.” “Max, they’re family! Sue’s my cousin, Victor’s lovely, Michael’s sick. And you’d put them out on the street?” Katie’s hands shook as she poured water. “You didn’t ask us, Linda.” “Why would I? You weren’t here!” “All the more reason to ask,” Max’s voice rose. “We have phones. You could have called, texted—asked. We’d have worked it out.” “And refused?” “Maybe. Or agreed to a shorter stay, with some ground rules. But we’d have known. That’s called respect.” Linda stood. “You see. I try, I help, and I always get blamed. Sue, pack up. We’ll squeeze in mine.” “You’ve only got a one-bed. You said it was too small for four…” “We’ll manage. Better than staying with ingrates.” Katie set her glass down. “Linda, stop. You know exactly what you did wrong. Otherwise, you’d have called first.” She froze. “You knew we’d object. That’s why you just told us when it was too late. So we’d have no choice but to put up with it. Right?” “I meant well.” “No. You wanted your way. That’s different.” For the first time, Linda looked lost. “Sue was in tears. Michael’s in pain. I just wanted to help.” “We understand,” said Max. “But you can’t just take over. Mum, imagine if I came to yours while you were away and let my friends stay. Didn’t ask. How would you feel?” “I’d be angry.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence. Sue quietly wept, Victor packed. Michael stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. “I thought it was OK. Grandma Linda said so.” Katie gave him a tired look. Just a frightened, guilty lad. None of this was his fault. “It’s not your fault,” she sighed. “Go help your parents.” Linda wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I really thought it was right. Didn’t think to ask. You’re my children, I always did everything, thought you’d understand.” “We’re not children, mum. We’re in our thirties. We have our own life.” “I get it,” Linda stood. “Do you want the keys back?” “We do,” Katie said. “Sorry, but trust is broken.” “I understand.” Sue’s family packed fast, apologising awkwardly. Linda took them away, promising she’d make space. Max shut the door and leaned against it. They wandered through their home. The bed needed remaking. The fridge needed sorting. There were things out of place everywhere: forgotten bits, moved furniture, dirty dishes. Milo stayed under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Katie asked, opening the kitchen window. “I hope so.” “And if not?” “We’ll be firmer next time. Never again.” Katie hugged her husband. They stood in their disrupted home in silence. “You know what hurts most?” she pulled away. “The cat. This was all for him, and he’s been ignored all week, scared, starving.” “Did they even feed him?” “Doesn’t look like it. Empty dish, murky water. I doubt they even remembered him.” Max crouched by the bed. “Milo, mate, I’m sorry. No more keys for grandma.” The cat peeked out warily, then slowly emerged and rubbed against Max’s legs. Katie brought food, and he devoured it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. They began to clean—their things, their routines, slowly reclaiming their home. Milo ate, then curled up in the window, finally peaceful. That evening, Linda called. Her voice was quiet, ashamed. “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thank you, mum.” “Is Katie angry?” He looked at his wife—she nodded. “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat drinking tea, saying little. Night gathered outside. The flat was clean, quiet, theirs again—though their holiday had ended, suddenly and harshly.

I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! As the doors of the reception hall slowly swung open, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, carefully holding up the hem and trying not to betray the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out bubbling glasses of champagne—everything was as Artem and I had dreamed. Well, almost. Just as I was catching my breath before stepping into the hall, the screech of brakes suddenly pierced the quiet. Through the glass entrance, I spotted an old silver people carrier pulling up to the steps. The door slid open, and out came a noisy crew: Auntie Gail, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Please, not this,” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “Did they actually come?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with children.” We stood frozen in the doorway, ready to be announced and swept into the celebration as husband and wife, but instead we were two actors suddenly at a loss for lines on opening night. At that moment, I understood: if I didn’t keep it together now, the entire day would be ruined. But to make sense of how we got here, you’d have to go back several weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing: we wanted a quiet, intimate, cosy wedding. Only 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we dislike children. But because we dreamed of an evening free from dashing about, high-pitched screams, tumbling off bouncy castles, spilled juice, and other people’s midnight lectures. All our friends understood. My parents did too. Artem’s parents were surprised, but quickly got over it. But the extended family… Auntie Gail called first—a woman whose volume is coded firmly in her DNA. “Inna!” she started without a hello. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We just want a peaceful evening, so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She sounded so scandalised, you’d think I’d proposed a nationwide ban on babies. “Don’t you get it? We’re a close family! We always go everywhere together!” “It’s our special day. We aren’t forcing anyone to come, but that’s our rule.” A heavy pause, as solid as granite. “Fine, then. We won’t be there,” she snapped, and hung up. I looked at the phone, feeling like I’d just hit the big red ‘disaster’ button. Three days later, Artem arrived home, looking grim. “Inna… can we talk?” “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three kids aren’t some sort of wild monsters, but normal people, and if they’re not wanted, she’s not coming either—not her, her husband, or her in-laws.” “So, five fewer?” “Eight,” he corrected, collapsing onto the sofa. “They say we’re breaking tradition.” I couldn’t help but laugh—a hysterical, broken sort of laugh. “What tradition? Letting kids take out waiters with snack trays?” Artem managed a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re ready to riot.” But the campaign didn’t stop there. A week later, we went for family dinner at Artem’s parents’ place, and there I got a surprise. His grandmother, quiet and usually invisible, suddenly took charge. “Children are a blessing,” she scolded. “Without them, a wedding feels empty.” I was about to reply, but Artem’s mum got there first. “Mum, please! Children at weddings are chaos. You complain about the noise yourself. How many times have we crawled under tables to catch the little runners?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the wishes of the ones getting married,” his mother said, perfectly calm. I wanted to stand up and cheer. But Grandma only shook her head. “I still think you’re wrong.” That’s when I knew: this had officially become a family drama on par with Game of Thrones. And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout punch came a few days later. Ring. Uncle Mike’s name flashed up—normally as unflappable as an English oak. “Inna, hi,” he began gently. “We’ve been talking… Why no children? They’re part of us—you know we always go to weddings together.” I sighed. “Mike, we just want a calm evening. Honestly, we’re not forcing anyone…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But… Olya says if the children aren’t included, she won’t come. And I’ll stay with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more off the list. By now our guest count was dropping like January pounds. Artem sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said quietly. “It’s our day, not theirs.” But the pressure kept coming. Grandma would throw in, “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya posted in the family WhatsApp: “A shame, really, when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The people carrier pulled up right in front of the steps. Children were out first, marching across the paving as if they’d rehearsed it. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her handbag. “I’m going mad,” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We walked outside to greet them. Auntie Gail sailed onto the top step. “Well hello, newlyweds!” she declared in a stage voice. “Sorry we’re late, but we decided to come after all. We’re family, you know! Couldn’t leave the children—no one to watch them. But they’ll be very quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem muttered, eyeing the kids already poking their heads under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed, very clearly: no children. You knew this from the start.” “But it’s a wedding…” she began. That’s when Grandma stepped in. “We’re here to celebrate you,” she said, measured, “but children are family. It’s wrong to separate them out.” “Mrs. Paulson,” I said as gently as I could, “We’re glad you’re here, truly. But this was our choice. And if people can’t respect that, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t get to finish. “Mum!” Artem’s mother cut in, emerging from the hall. “Stop ruining their day. Adults party—children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Grandma blinked. Auntie Gail froze. Even the children went suddenly silent—sensing the shift. Gail sniffled. “Well… okay. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We just thought it would be better this way.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silent standoff, and then—without a word—they led the children back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home. The adults remained. For the first time, completely voluntarily. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, a gentle hum of conversation. Friends raised glasses, gentlemen made way, waiters poured the champagne. I realised then: we had done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, wife… I think we won.” “I think so too,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. Our first dance—no little feet underfoot. No one shouting or dropping cakes, no Peppa Pig videos blaring from a mobile. Just grown-ups chatting, laughing, enjoying the music. A few hours later, Grandma approached. “Inna, Artem,” she said softly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… nice. Really nice. So peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.” She sighed. “Old habits die hard. But you knew best.” Those words meant more to me than any wedding toast. Towards the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching her Prosecco as if it were a shield. “Inna…” she lowered her voice. “I went overboard. Sorry. We’ve always had kids everywhere. But tonight… it was beautiful. Peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thanks for being here,” I replied, honestly. “We never get to relax, being parents. But tonight… I felt like a real person again,” she confided. “A bit sad we never thought of this before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the reception ended, Artem and I stepped out into the lamplight. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “Because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was what mattered. Family is important. Tradition matters too. But boundaries are just as important. And if the couple says “no children at the wedding,” it isn’t a whim—it’s their right. As it turns out, even the clunkiest family traditions can change—if you make it clear the decision is final. That day was a lesson for all of us—especially for Artem and me: sometimes, to save your celebration, you need to be able to say “no.” And that “no” makes for a truly happy day.