The Day I Went to Get Divorced Dressed as a Bride: How I Faced Court in My Wedding Gown and Made My Husband Wear His Suit One Last Time

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 3

The day I went to get divorced, wearing my wedding dress.

When my husband told me he wanted a divorce, I opened the wardrobe and pulled out my gownthe very same silk and lace dress I wore on our wedding day.

What on earth are you doing? he asked me, his voice faint with disbelief.

Im wearing this to court, I replied, shaking out the creases and letting the years dust fall away.

Are you mad? You cant go to a divorce hearing dressed as a bride!

Why not? And youput on your wedding suit. If you promised me forever dressed like that, you can end it that way too.

I watched him struggle for words and fail to find a single good one. Twenty minutes later, he was rummaging at the back of the wardrobe, muttering under his breath as he searched for his charcoal suit.

When we arrived at the courthouse, the security guard stared at us, speechless. A lady at the desk shouted, Congratulations! only to be nudged by her colleague, who hissed, Dont be dafttheyre here for a divorce!

The judge nearly fell from his chair when we entered: I stood in full ivory silk, veil and all, while he was suited and booted, bowtie perfectly straight.

Madam, the judge said, battling an amused smile, may I ask why youve come dressed as a bride?

With respect, Your Honour, I explained with as much dignity as I could muster, this man pledged till death do us part wearing this very suit. Since death hasnt yet parted us, if he wishes to end our marriage, he ought to do it looking at me exactly as he did the day he swore otherwise.

My husband looked at me then, eyes glistening.

I never lied to you, he whispered. I truly loved you that day.

And now? I asked, my voice barely steady.

The judge cleared his throat.

I think perhaps you two could use half an hour to walk and talk, he said. Take a break. If you return, still dressed like this and still certain, Ill proceed. But somehow, I suspect two people whove come this far together have a lot left to say.

We found ourselves in the corridor outside, uncertain, the hush of our shoes echoing on the polished floor. He gently straightened my veil, which had slipped askew.

You look beautiful, he said softly. Just like you did then.

And you look smart, I admitted, for a fool.

There we stood, dressed for a wedding in the middle of the divorce court, both lost for what to do next.

What if he began tentatively, instead of divorcing, we found ourselves a bit of wedding cake and remembered why we did all this in the first place?

Is real love the kind that dresses up for divorce the same way it does for marriage? Or are we just two hopelessly dramatic people, never quite able to do anything by halves?

The Summer Ground Rules When the commuter train screeched to a halt at the tiny English country platform, Mrs Margaret Evans was already standing at the very edge, clutching her canvas tote bag to her chest. In the bag, apples rolled around, there was a jar of homemade strawberry jam, and a plastic container filled with sausage rolls. None of it was really necessary—the kids arrived well-fed from London, with their rucksacks and tote bags—but her hands automatically reached for things to prepare. The train jolted, its doors slid open, and out spilled three figures at once: lanky, long-legged Jamie, his younger sister Lucy, and a rucksack that seemed to have a life of its own. “Gran!” Lucy spotted her first, waving so hard her bracelets jingled. Margaret felt something warm rising in her chest. She carefully set the bag down so she wouldn’t drop it, and opened her arms. “Oh, you two have—” She wanted to say “grown,” but bit her tongue in time. They already knew. Jamie came over a little slower and gave her a one-armed hug while keeping a grip on his backpack. “Hi, Nan,” he said. He was already almost a head taller than she was. A hint of stubble on his chin, thin wrists, headphones peeking from under his t-shirt. Margaret caught herself looking for the little boy who used to run across their allotment in wellies, but her eyes always landed on those grown-up, unfamiliar details. “Grandad’s waiting in the car park,” she said. “Come on, let’s get going or the fishcakes will go cold.” “Just a quick snap,” Lucy already had her phone out, snapping photos of the platform, the carriage, and Margaret herself. “For my story.” The word “story” flitted past Margaret’s ear like a bird. She’d asked her daughter what it meant last winter, but the explanation had slipped away. The main thing was that her granddaughter was smiling. They clattered down the cement steps. At the bottom, next to the old, battered Land Rover, stood Mr Walter Evans. He stepped forward, gave Jamie a clap on the shoulder, hugged Lucy, and nodded to his wife. He was always more reserved, but Margaret knew he was just as happy as she was. “So, summer holidays?” he asked. “Summer,” Jamie drawled, tossing his bag in the boot. On the drive home, the kids quieted down. Out the window stretched little cottages, kitchen gardens, a few sheep, the odd goat meandering about. Lucy scrolled through her phone once or twice; Jamie laughed at his screen. Margaret realised she was watching their hands, fingers always tapping oversized black rectangles. Never mind, she told herself. As long as home feels like home. The rest—let them do as they do these days. They arrived to the welcoming smell of frying fishcakes and fresh dill. On the terrace, the old wooden table was covered with a lemon-patterned oilcloth. The frying pan sizzled on the hob, and in the oven a cabbage pie was browning. “Wow, feast!” said Jamie, peeking into the kitchen. “It’s not a feast, it’s lunch,” Margaret replied automatically, and then caught herself. “Well, come on, wash your hands. Over there, in the scullery.” Lucy was already back on her phone. While Margaret set out salad, bread, fishcakes, she noticed Lucy sneaking photos of the plates, the window, their cat Molly peeking cautiously from under a chair. “No phones at the table,” she said offhandedly, once everyone was seated. Jamie looked up. “You what?” “Exactly what I said,” Walter chimed in. “Eat first—then do whatever you like.” Lucy hesitated for a moment, then set her phone face-down by her plate. “I just want to take a pic—” “You’ve taken enough already,” Margaret said gently. “Let’s eat now, posting comes after.” The word “posting” felt awkward on her tongue. She wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be called, but decided it would do. Jamie, after a moment’s pause, also laid his phone at the edge of the table, as if being asked to take off his helmet in a spaceship. “Here, we do things by the schedule,” she continued, pouring squash. “Lunch at one, supper at seven. Up by nine in the morning. After that—off you go, whatever you please.” “By nine…” Jamie echoed. “What if I want to watch a film at night?” “Night’s for sleeping,” Walter said, not looking up from his plate. A taut, invisible thread stretched between them. Margaret hastily added, “We’re not running a barracks, you know. Just, if you sleep past lunch, the day’s gone and you’ll see nothing. There’s the river, the woods, bikes to ride.” “I want the river,” Lucy said quickly. “And to try the bike. Oh, and a mini photo shoot in the orchard.” The mention of a “photo shoot” sounded less alien now. “Exactly,” Margaret nodded. “But first, a little help. Weeding potatoes, watering strawberries. You’re not here as guests of honour.” “Gran, it’s our holiday…” Jamie started, but Walter met his eyes. “It’s a holiday, not a hotel.” Jamie sighed but didn’t argue. Under the table, Lucy nudged his trainer with her shoe and he gave a faint grin. After lunch, the kids headed off to unpack. Margaret checked in half an hour later. Lucy had already draped t-shirts over a chair, lined up her makeup and charger, perfume bottles crowding the sill. Jamie sat on his bed scrolling through his phone. “I’ve put fresh bedding on—you let me know if you need anything, all right?” “All fine, Nan,” Jamie replied, eyes fixed on the screen. She winced a little at his “fine.” But nodded. “Barbeque tonight,” she said. “Rest up for a bit, then come out to the garden. We’ll do an hour or two.” “Sure,” Jamie said. She left, closed the door, and paused in the hallway. Through Lucy’s room, she could hear muffled laughter and video chat. Margaret suddenly felt old. Not in an aching-back way, but as if her grandchildren’s lives ran on some hidden, unreachable track. Never mind, she told herself. We’ll work it out. The main thing—not to push too hard. That evening, as the sun tilted low, the three stood in the kitchen garden. The earth was warm, dry grass crackled underfoot. Walter showed Lucy which were weeds and which were carrots. “Pull out these, leave those,” he explained. “What if I mess up?” Lucy asked, crouching uncertainly. “No one’s going to the gallows for a rogue carrot,” Margaret interjected. “Not the end of the world.” Jamie hung back with a hoe, peering now and then at the house. From his window upstairs, the faint blue glow of his monitor flashed on and off. “Not worried about losing your phone out here?” Walter asked him. “Left it in my room,” Jamie muttered. Margaret was more pleased by this than she’d ever have admitted. The first few days struck a fragile balance. In the morning she’d knock on doors to wake them, to groans and shuffling. Still, by half-nine they’d appear in the kitchen. Breakfast, a bit of help with chores, then off: Lucy choreographing photo shoots with Molly and strawberries for her social media; Jamie reading, music in his headphones, or out on the bike. The rules existed in small things: phones set aside at meals, night-time quiet in the house. Only once, on the third night, did Margaret hear muffled laughter behind Jamie’s door, checked the clock—half twelve. Shall I let it go? Or intervene? The laughter came again, then a familiar ping. She sighed, pulled on her dressing gown, and knocked softly. “Jamie, not asleep?” Silence, then a whisper. “Coming—” He opened the door, blinking in the hallway light, hair tousled, eyes red-rimmed, phone in hand. “What are you doing up?” “Just…watching a film.” “Past midnight?” “The lads and I—well, we’re all watching it ‘together,’ texting…” She pictured half a dozen teenagers in bedrooms around England, chatting about the same film. “Look, how about this,” she said. “I don’t mind the film. But if you’re up all hours, I’ll never get you working in the garden. Until midnight, all right? After that—sleep.” He pulled a face. “But they—” “They’re in London; you’re here. Our house, our ways. It’s not like I’m saying bed at nine.” He scratched his head, thinking it over. “Fine,” he said in the end. “Midnight.” “And close the door, keep the noise down,” she added. “And screen brightness low.” Back to bed, Margaret wondered if she’d gone soft. In her day she’d have been stricter with her daughter. But times had changed. Small conflicts arose: one hot morning, Margaret asked Jamie to help Walter shift planks to the shed. “Just finishing this,” he said, not looking up. Ten minutes later, he was still outside, eyes on the screen, planks untouched. “Jamie—Grandad’s already started on his own,” her voice sharper. “I’ll be there. I’ve got to finish this!” “What is it you’re always doing? You’re not running MI6 over there.” His head shot up. “This is important! It’s a team tournament—if I leave now the lads will lose.” She nearly insisted that some things mattered more than games, but his hunched shoulders, tightened mouth stopped her. “How much longer?” “Twenty minutes.” “Fine. Twenty minutes, then out to help. Deal?” He nodded, eyes dropping to the screen. In twenty minutes, she found him lacing his trainers, ready to go. Small deals, she found, gave the illusion of control. But sometimes, everything still flared out of hand. Mid-July, just as they were planning a trip to the local market for seedlings and groceries, Walter asked for help—bags were heavy, car shouldn’t be left unattended long. “Jamie, you’re coming to the market with me tomorrow,” Margaret announced over supper. “Lucy and I will be home making jam.” “I can’t,” Jamie said quickly. “Why not?” “I’ve already arranged to go into town with mates. There’s a festival—bands, food trucks—” He glanced at Lucy, who merely shrugged. “I told you already.” Margaret didn’t remember. Maybe he had mentioned it, but with all the conversations, it was hard to keep straight. “Which town?” Walter’s brow furrowed. “Our one—the next stop on the train. Not far from the station.” “Do you even know the way?” Walter pressed. “There’ll be loads of us. Anyway, I’m sixteen now.” “Sixteen” came out as a trump card against all objections. “It was agreed with your dad, no wandering off alone,” Walter said. “I’m not alone—going with friends.” “That’s even worse.” Tension thickened the air; Lucy quietly pushed back her plate. “How about this,” Margaret tried, “You both go to the market tonight, Jamie can go into town tomorrow.” “Market’s only on in the morning,” Walter snapped. “Help means help. I can’t carry everything alone.” “I could help,” Lucy volunteered unexpectedly. “You’ll be with your grandmother,” Walter replied automatically. “I’ll be fine,” Margaret said briskly. “Jam can wait. Let Lucy help you.” Walter looked at her—surprised, grateful, and something else, stubborn. “And he gets off free?” He nodded at Jamie. “I just—” Jamie started. “You do realise this isn’t London,” Walter’s voice harsher, “We have to look out for you here.” “Someone’s always looking after me,” Jamie burst out. “Can’t I take responsibility for once?” Silence. Margaret felt squeezed inside. She wanted to say she understood, that she’d once craved that same “independence,” but instead heard herself say, dry and strange: “While you’re here, you live by our rules.” Jamie pushed his chair back. “Fine. I won’t go anywhere then.” He left the kitchen, door slamming. Upstairs, a muffled thud soon followed—a tossed rucksack or Jamie flopping onto his bed. Tension hung over the evening. Lucy tried to lighten things with tales of a YouTuber, but laughter sounded forced. Walter stayed quiet, gazing at his plate. Margaret washed dishes, her words about “our rules” echoing, sharp as a spoon on glass. She woke that night to unnatural silence. Usually, the house breathed: floorboards creaked, a mouse somewhere busied itself, the distant sound of a car would drift by. Now, nothing. No light glowed under Jamie’s door. Maybe at least he’s sleeping, she thought, turning over. Downstairs next morning, not quite nine. Lucy was yawning at the table. Walter sipped tea, rustling the newspaper. “Where’s Jamie?” Margaret asked. “Asleep,” Lucy guessed. Margaret climbed the stairs and knocked. “Jamie, time to get up.” No reply. She opened the door. The bed had been sloppily made—typical of his not-bothered effort—but he was absent. Hoodie on the chair, charger by the desk. No phone. Something sank in her chest. “He’s not there,” she told Walter downstairs. “Not there?” Walter stood up. The three searched the garden and outbuildings. The bike was still in place. “First train’s at 8:40,” Walter murmured, watching the lane. “Maybe he’s with the village kids—” “What village kids? He doesn’t know any here.” Lucy pulled out her phone. “I’ll text him.” Her thumbs flew over the screen. A minute later, she glanced up. “No reply. Just a single tick.” Single tick meant nothing to Margaret, but the expression on Lucy’s face said enough. “So what now?” Margaret asked Walter. He hesitated. “I’ll check the station—see if anyone’s seen him.” “Are you sure?” Margaret asked anxiously. “Maybe he just—” “He’s disappeared without a word,” Walter cut her off. “It’s not nothing.” He dressed rapidly, took the car keys. “You stay here,” he told Margaret. “In case he comes home. Lucy, if you hear from him, let us know straight away.” As the car pulled out, Margaret stood on the terrace, clutching a dishcloth. Images whirled in her mind: Jamie waiting for the train, boarding, being pushed onto the tracks, losing his phone, worse…She pulled herself up sharp. Calm down. He’s not a child. He’s not a fool. An hour crawled by. Another. Lucy checked her phone often, shaking her head. “Still nothing. He’s not even online.” At eleven, Walter returned looking exhausted. “No one’s seen him. I went to the station—even up to the high street…” He trailed off. Margaret understood: there was no sign of him. “Maybe he just went to the festival after all,” she suggested. “Town’s not far.” “Without cash, without anything?” Walter frowned. “He’s got his card,” Lucy chimed in. “And Apple Pay.” They all exchanged looks; for the adults, money meant wallet, for the kids it existed somewhere in the ether. “Shall we ring his dad?” Margaret suggested. “Ring,” nodded Walter. “He’ll find out anyway.” The call was tough. Her son was silent, then angry, then questioning why they hadn’t kept a closer eye. Margaret listened, feeling an ache of weariness. After hanging up, she sat at the kitchen stool, covering her face. “Gran,” Lucy said gently, “he’s not gone for good. Truly. He just got upset. He’ll be back.” “He left angry and without a word,” Margaret whispered. “Like we’re his enemies.” The day dragged endlessly. They tried to keep busy: jam jars to fill, Walter fussed in the shed, but everything felt forced. Lucy’s phone stayed silent. Evening fell, the sun low behind the houses, when there was a faint sound on the terrace. Margaret, sitting with a half-drunk mug of tea, startled. The old gate squeaked. Jamie appeared. Same t-shirt, jeans dusted, rucksack over his shoulder. Tired but in one piece. “Hullo,” he said quietly. Margaret got to her feet. For a moment she almost threw her arms around him, but held back. Instead, she simply asked: “Where have you been?” “The festival,” he mumbled, looking down. “In town.” “On your own?” “With some people from the next village—arranged it online.” Walter came out, drying his hands. “You realize how we—” his voice cracked. “I messaged,” Jamie insisted. “Lost signal, then my phone died. Forgot my charger.” Lucy was already next to him, phone in hand. “I texted too—always just one tick on my end.” “Didn’t mean for that,” Jamie said, meeting their eyes in turn. “I just thought…if I asked, you’d say no. But I’d already made plans. So I…” He trailed off. “So you thought, better not to ask,” Walter finished. Another silence, less angry, more tired than before. “Come in and eat,” Margaret said at last. He obeyed, wolfing down a bowl of soup and bread, drank a whole glass of squash. “It’s expensive there,” he muttered, “those posh food trucks.” When they’d finished, they moved back to the terrace. The sun had nearly set, air cool. “Right,” Walter began, settling on the bench, “you want some freedom. Fair enough. But we’re responsible for you while you’re here. We can’t just not care where you are.” Jamie stared at the floor. “If you want to go anywhere,” Walter said, “you tell us in advance. Not the night before—at least a day ahead. We’ll all sit down, talk it through. Check the trains, when you’re back, who you’re with. If it’s okay, you go. If not, you don’t. But disappearing on your own—not happening.” “And if you say no?” Jamie asked. “Then you can sulk, but you’re coming to the market,” Margaret put in. He watched her, face clouded with hurt, tiredness, and something like confusion. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said softly. “Just wanted to decide for myself.” “Making your own choices is part of growing up,” she said. “But taking responsibility means thinking about those who worry as well.” She was surprised at her own words—plainly said, not a lecture. He sighed. “Fine. I get it.” “And if your phone dies,” Walter added, “find somewhere to charge it—cafe, station, whatever. But message us first. Even if we’re cross.” “Okay,” Jamie nodded. They sat a while, the distant bark of a dog, Molly mewing in the vegetable patch. “How was the festival then?” Lucy asked at last. “It was all right. Music wasn’t great but the food was good.” “Got any pics?” “Phone died.” “Well, that’s that—no evidence, no content,” she shrugged. Jamie managed a faint smile. After that day, something shifted in the house. The rules stayed, but softened, more flexible. Margaret and Walter sat down together and wrote up what they thought mattered: up by ten at the latest, two hours’ help each day, always say where you’re going, no phones at mealtimes. The sheet went on the fridge. “Like being at camp,” Jamie joked. “Family camp,” she said. Lucy put up her own list of rules: “You don’t call me every five minutes when I’m at the river, and don’t come in my room without knocking.” “We never do,” Margaret replied, surprised. “Write it anyway,” Jamie insisted, “just for fairness.” So they added two more lines. Walter grumbled, but signed it. Suddenly shared activities stopped feeling like chores. One evening Lucy dragged an ancient board game onto the terrace. “Let’s play after dinner?” “I used to love this,” Jamie perked up. Walter grumbled about jobs in the garage, but sat at the table anyway. Turned out he remembered the rules better than anyone. They all laughed, bickered, cheated at the dice. Phones were left forgotten. Cooking became another shared thing. One Saturday, Margaret announced: “You two are cooking tonight. I’ll only say where things are.” “Us?” they chorused. “You. Anything—so long as it’s edible.” They took it on in earnest: Lucy found some trendy recipe online, Jamie chopped veg, arguing about technique. The house filled with onion and spices, dishes stacked up, but something light and festive was in the air. “Don’t blame me when we’re queuing for the loo,” Walter quipped, but cleared his plate. Chores got less traditional: Margaret assigned them “personal patches” in the garden. “Lucy, your row is strawberries. Jamie, yours is carrots. Do what you like, water or ignore it. No complaints if nowt grows.” “Fair test,” Jamie declared. “Control group and experiment,” Lucy agreed. By the end of August, Lucy’s basket brimmed with strawberries, Jamie had a couple of withered carrots. “Conclusions?” Margaret asked. “Carrots aren’t for me,” Jamie said earnestly. Everyone laughed. No tension left behind. As August waned, the house developed its own, comfortable rhythm. Breakfast together, day’s own pursuits, regrouping at supper. Jamie still sometimes stayed up with his phone, but at midnight he switched off the light himself; Margaret, passing his door, heard only the peace of sleep. Lucy could be off with friends to the river, but always texted to say where and when she’d be home. Arguments still flared: over music, how much salt for soup, whether to wash up straight away or leave it. Now, more jostling than generational war—just the tune of living under one roof. Their last night, Margaret baked an apple pie. The house smelled sweet, the terrace door let in a cool breeze. Rucksacks packed, jumpers folded by the door. “Let’s have a photo,” Lucy said after pie was sliced. “Not for all your—” Walter started, then let it go. “Just for us,” Lucy assured him. “Not even to post.” They gathered in the garden. The sun dipped behind the houses, brushing the apple trees with gold. Lucy perched her phone on an upturned bucket, set the timer, dashed back. “Gran in the middle, Grandad on the right, Jamie on the left—come on.” A bit awkward, shoulder to shoulder. Margaret felt Jamie’s elbow gently touch hers, Walter inch closer, Lucy’s arm almost around them all. “Everyone smile.” A click, then another. “Done,” Lucy checked the phone, grinned. “Perfect.” “Let’s see,” Margaret asked. There they all were, a mismatched bunch: Margaret still in her apron, Walter in his weathered old shirt, Jamie with wild hair, Lucy in her brightest t-shirt. But the way they leaned in—not just a family, but a team. “Can I get this printed?” Margaret asked. “Of course—I’ll send it to you,” Lucy said. “But how will I print it if it’s on the phone?” Margaret fretted. “I’ll show you,” Jamie offered. “Come to ours, we’ll do it together. Or I’ll bring a copy in autumn.” Margaret nodded. Inside, she felt at peace. Not that they all understood each other perfectly—plenty of room for more arguments. But somewhere, between old rules and new freedoms, a little pathway had been cleared. Late that evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Margaret sat outside on the step. The sky folded overhead, just a few stars behind the old rooftops. The house was quiet. Walter joined her with a soft creak of wood. “They’re off tomorrow,” he said. “They are,” Margaret echoed. They sat silently. “You know,” Walter added, “all things told—it worked out.” “It did,” Margaret agreed. “And I think maybe we all learnt something.” “Yes, but who learnt from whom is the question,” he chuckled. Margaret smiled. The window of Jamie’s room was dark. So was Lucy’s. On the nightstand, she imagined, Jamie’s phone was charging quietly, gathering strength for whatever tomorrow might bring. Margaret got up, closed the door, and, pausing by the fridge, glanced at the paper of their ground rules. Edges a bit curled, the pen beside it. She traced her signature—and the others—and wondered, next summer, maybe they’d rewrite the list. Add a rule or two, take something off. But the main things would still be there. Switching off the kitchen light, she felt the house settle, breathing in all the summer had brought, leaving space for whatever came next.

Even now, I sometimes wake in the dead of night and ask myself when my dad managed to take absolutely everything from us. I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but cosy house – furniture in its place, the fridge stocked well on shopping days, and the bills almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were getting through Maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without saying hello, toss his keys on the table, and head straight to his room with his phone in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you reckon this house keeps itself?” He’d just reply in a flat voice, “Just leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to all of it from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him in the garden talking on the phone. He laughed under his breath and said things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” As soon as he saw me, he hung up quickly. I felt a weird ache inside, but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted at him, “A while with who? Just tell the truth!” Then he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I broke down crying, “What about me? My school? The house?” He just replied, “You’ll figure it out.” He shut his suitcase, grabbed the documents from his drawer, picked up his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, mum tried to get money from the cashpoint but her card was blocked. The next day she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they’d saved together. On top of that, we learnt he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan behind mum’s back, naming her as guarantor. I remember mum sitting at the table, sifting through scraps of paper with an old calculator, crying and muttering, “It’s not enough… it’s just not enough…” I tried to help sort out the bills but didn’t understand even half of what was happening. A week later they cut off our internet, and soon nearly disconnected the electricity, too. Mum started cleaning people’s houses for work. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing in the corridor with a bag of chocolates at break time, but I did it because at home we barely had the basics. There was one day I opened the fridge and there was only a jug of water and half a tomato inside. I sat in the kitchen and cried on my own. That same night we had plain rice – nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to provide as she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook of dad with that woman at a restaurant – raising a glass of wine together. My hands were shaking. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that, he never called again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He simply vanished. Now I work, pay for everything on my own, and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of money – because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and moved on with his life as if nothing ever happened. And even now, so many nights I wake up with the same question lodged in my chest: How does a person survive when their own father takes everything, leaving them to learn to fend for themselves while they’re still just a child?

My Mother-in-Law Suggested We Move into Her Flat—But Clearly She Had an Agenda —Thank you so much for offering, that’s very generous. But we’ll have to say no. My mother-in-law’s face fell. —Why is that? Are you just too proud? —No, not proud. We’ve just settled in. Switching schools in the middle of the year is stressful for the kids. Besides, we’re used to it here. We’ve just renovated, everything’s new. And at your place… — Kristina paused, choosing her words, then decided to be direct. — You’ve got lots of precious memories and things there. The kids are small, something will get broken or stained. Why put ourselves through that stress? When Kristina got home from work, her husband was standing in the hall, clearly waiting for her. She took off her shoes, walked silently into the bedroom to change, then headed for the kitchen. Her husband trailed behind, silent. Kristina couldn’t take it: —Are we going to start this again? I already said: no! Denis let out a long sigh. —Mum called again today. Says her blood pressure’s up. It’s hard for her over there, Granddad and Grandma have gotten very frail, acting like kids. She can’t cope on her own. —And? — Kristina took a sip of cold water, staving off rising irritation. — She chose to live at the cottage. She rents the flat out and gets money, gets fresh air. She liked it there. —She liked it until she had the energy. Now she’s moaning it’s boring and hard. Well… — Denis took a deep breath. — She’s suggested we move into her three-bed. Kristina stared at him, barked: —No. —Why say “no” right away? You didn’t even hear me out! — Denis threw up his hands. — Look: it’s a great area. Fifteen minutes from your office, twenty from mine. The language school’s just across the road, the nursery’s in the yard. No more commuting in traffic! And we could rent out this place, the mortgage would pay for itself. We’d even have some money left over. —Denis, do you hear yourself? — Kristina got right up close. — We’ve lived here two and a half years. I chose a spot for every plug socket in this place! The kids have friends next door. This is finally our home. Ours! —What does it matter where you live if you’re only home to sleep? We’re spending two hours a night just getting back from work! — he parried. — It’s an old building, high ceilings, thick walls, you can’t hear the neighbours. —And the décor was outdated even when I was at school, — Kristina shot back. — Have you forgotten the smell in there? And most of all, it isn’t our home. It’s Anna Leonidovna’s. —Mum says she won’t interfere. She’ll stay at the cottage, just wants to know her flat’s being looked after. Kristina gave a bitter smile. —Denis, do you have the memory of a goldfish? Remember how we bought this flat? Her husband looked away. Of course, he remembered. They’d spent seven years in rentals, saving every penny. When they finally had enough for a deposit, Denis had gone to his mum. The plan was perfect: sell mum’s big flat in the centre, buy her a nice two-bed and something decent for the two of them. Anna Leonidovna nodded and smiled, saying, “Of course, you need more space.” They’d already lined up options, already dreamed. But on the very day they were supposed to meet the agent, she called. —Remember what she said? — Kristina continued. — “I’ve been thinking… My area is so prestigious, the neighbours are so civilised. How can I go to your new build with all those people? No, I don’t want to.” So we went to the bank, took out a huge mortgage and got this place five miles outside the M25. Ourselves. Without her “prestigious” square meters. —Well, she was afraid of change, her age and all, — muttered Denis. — She’s different now. She’s lonely. Wants the grandkids close. —The grandkids? She sees them once a month when we visit with groceries. Then after half an hour she’s sighing because the noise gives her a migraine. Six-year-old Artyom ran into the kitchen, four-year-old Liza at his heels. —Mum, Dad, we’re hungry! — Artyom shouted. — And Liza broke my plane! I spent three hours building it, and she smashed it… —That’s not true! — squeaked Liza. — He dropped it himself! Kristina exhaled. —Right, go wash your hands. Dinner soon. Did Daddy cook pasta? —I did, — Denis muttered. — And sausages. While the kids banged chairs and Kristina dished out food, the subject was dropped. They didn’t pick it up again until bedtime. *** Saturday, they had to go to the cottage — Anna Leonidovna called in the morning, saying Grandpa’s medicine had run out and she “felt pressure in her chest”. The drive took an hour and a half. Anna Leonidovna met them at the door. At sixty-three she looked amazing: hair done, nails, a dainty silk scarf at her neck. —Oh, you made it, — she held out her cheek for a kiss. — Kristina, have you put on weight? Or is it just the blouse? —Hello, Anna Leonidovna. The blouse is just loose, — Kristina swallowed the jab as always. They went inside; the mother-in-law’s parents were dozing in front of the telly. Kristina greeted them, but they just nodded. —Tea? — asked Anna Leonidovna, heading to the kitchen. — I’ve got biscuits, a bit stale… I haven’t been shopping, my legs ache. —We brought cake, — Denis put the box on the table. — Mum, let’s talk. About the flat… Anna Leonidovna perked up. —Yes, yes, Denis. I’m nearly done here; the air is nice, nature, my parents need care. But in winter? It’s deathly boring. Meanwhile, the flat is standing empty, other people are in it, ruining everything. Breaks my heart! —Mum, your tenants are decent, a family, — Denis interjected. —Decent! — she snorted. — Last time I checked, the curtain was crooked. And it smelled… not right. So why are you stuck in the sticks? Move in with me. There’s plenty of room. Kristina glanced at her husband. —Anna Leonidovna, where do you plan to live? — she asked directly. Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows in surprise. —Where? Here, of course. With my parents. Well, maybe sometimes I’ll come to check on things, have blood tests at my clinic. I know all the doctors at our surgery. —How often is “sometimes”? — Kristina clarified. —Oh, maybe a couple of times a week. Or for a week, if the weather’s bad. I’ve got my room there, my bedroom. Don’t put the kids in it, they can have the big room. But my bedroom must stay as it is. Just in case. Kristina bristled. —So, you’re offering us the three-bed, but want us to keep one room just for you? So we’d live with the kids in two? —Why lock it? — Anna Leonidovna looked baffled. — Use it, just don’t move my things. Or the china cabinet. The crystal stays. And the books. Denis, remember? Don’t touch the library! Denis shifted awkwardly. —Mum, if we do move in, we’ll need to sort things out – make a kids’ room, set up beds… —Why beds? There’s a great sofa, still good! You dad bought it. No need to spend money! Kristina stood. —Denis, can we speak outside for a minute? She stepped onto the porch, not waiting for her husband. He followed, casting anxious glances at the door. —Did you hear that? — Kristina hissed. — “Don’t touch the sofa”, “my room”, “I’ll visit for a week”. Do you get what that means? —Kristin, she’s just afraid of change… —No, Denis! We’d just be unpaid caretakers! Can’t even move a cupboard! She’ll drop in any time, use her key, and tell me how to hang curtains, boil soup and make beds! —But it’s closer for work… — he tried weakly. —I don’t care! I’d rather sit in traffic for two hours and come home to a place that’s mine, where I make the rules. Denis was silent, looking at his shoes. He understood. Of course he understood. The easy way out had clouded his thinking. —And another thing, — Kristina crossed her arms. — Remember the ‘flat swap’? She let us down then because “being posh” was more important. Now she’s bored. She just wants company — us nearby, someone to nag. Just then, Anna Leonidovna appeared in the doorway. —What are you whispering about out here? Kristina turned to her. —We won’t put you out. We’re not moving. —Nonsense, — her mother-in-law huffed. — Denis, why are you letting your wife decide everything? Denis raised his head. —Mum, Kristina’s right, — he said, firmly. — We’re not moving. We have our own home. Anna Leonidovna pursed her lips. She knew she’d lost, but wouldn’t admit it. —Suit yourselves. I was only trying to help. Go on, keep wasting your lives in traffic jams. Just don’t complain later. —We won’t, — Denis promised. — Shall we head off, Mum? Do you need any more medicine or anything? —I need nothing from you, — she said, turning on her heel and slamming the door. They drove back in silence. By then, traffic at the city entrance had cleared, but there was still a red spot on the sat-nav near their area. —Are you mad? — Kristina asked as they stopped at the lights. Denis shook his head. —No. I pictured Artyom jumping on Dad’s old sofa and Mum having a heart attack. You’re right. It was a bad idea. —I don’t mind helping, Denis, — she said softly, patting his knee. — We’ll bring food, medicine. Get a carer if it gets hard. But we’re living separately. Distance is key to a good relationship. —Especially with my mum, — he said, wryly. *** Of course, Anna Leonidovna held a grudge against her daughter-in-law and son. Turns out she had already evicted the tenants, certain her son and his wife would move in. She badgered Denis for nearly a month. But Denis held firm—turns out, saying “no” isn’t that hard when it’s really needed.

Dad’s Holiday Cottage Olga discovered, quite unexpectedly and by sheer chance, that Dad’s cherished country cottage had been sold. She was calling her mum in another city from the local post office when, due to a mix-up by the operator, she was connected by accident to a conversation between her mum and her aunt. The news broke with the surreal randomness of a film scene: two voices from two cities, sharing the fact that the cottage was gone, sold at a good price, and now there might even be enough left over to help Olga out a bit! Her mum and her aunt—voices as familiar and precious as home itself—hundreds of kilometres away, their speech turned into electric signals and sent who knows how far across England. Physics had always been a puzzle for Olga; Dad insisted she study harder. *** “Dad, why is the September sunshine so different?” “What do you mean, sweetheart?” “I don’t know… I just can’t explain it. The light’s softer, somehow. It’s sunny but not like August.” “You’ve got to learn your physics, Oggy—the position of the planets changes in September! Catch this apple!” Dad laughed and tossed her a huge, shiny red apple with a hint of honey scent. “Discovery?” “No, not yet. Cinnamon Stripe.” Olga bit into the apple, sweet foam flooding her mouth, capturing the warmth of summer rains and the juice of the earth. She knew little about apples or physics—and therein lay her biggest worry! Because eighth-former Olga Sokolova had been hopelessly in love with her physics teacher for two years. The universe had narrowed down to rays of sunlight and the laws of matter, all refusing to fit neatly into the pages of her English school exercise book. Not that Dad needed telling; he could see it in her distant eyes and poor appetite. She’d confessed last year, sobbing all night on his lap. Mum was away, holidaying in a spa. Her sister, a dozen years older, was studying in another city. At the cottage, Dad was always happy. He whistled lively tunes—he never did that at home. There, Mum and her older sister held the stage. Mum was a stunner, head librarian at an RAF base, tall, proud, with a stubborn streak and a mane of coppery hair dyed with henna. Every other month, she’d emerge from the bath wrapped in a big turban, scented with herbs and rain. Mum’s beauty was plain for all to see. Dad, nearly ten years her senior and a bit shorter, was quiet and unassuming. “Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” Mum had once said, and Olga had taken offense, overhearing. Unassuming—or so he seemed next to Mum’s flaming hair, dramatic gestures, and spirited nature. Mum loved comfort and order, but Dad always welcomed his “soldiers,” as he called his pals from his days in the forces. Some slept on the floor of their tiny two-bed flat. After Dad was made redundant as a major in the 1960 Army Downsizing (“one million three hundred thousand out!”), he worked as chief engineer at the Liverpool Telegraph Office. His soldiers built the cottage for him, taking turns digging and hammering away for free. It was tiny, just one room and a porch, but Olga loved curling up on the roof with a bowl of gooseberries or strawberries, carried up by Dad. Bliss. Mum rarely visited, reluctant to spoil her beautiful hands with any digging. Olga admired them; Dad kissed them. “These hands are made for lending out books, not for working the vegetable patch,” he’d joke, winking. *** The first drops of September rain tapped cheerfully on the porch roof. Olga tucked away her book. “Oggy, come down! Mum and Irina will be here soon, and we need to sort dinner,” Dad called, his voice ringing with unaccustomed brightness at the cottage. Olga dawdled, head tilted skyward. The clouds were swollen, grey, but not threatening. Rain slicked her face. Hugging herself for warmth, she watched beams of sunlight stabbing through the cloud, over neighbours’ gardens. Physics forgot, her first year at journalism school in London spread before her with its own rules. She’d been placed straight into a hostel room; for the first week, she rented a flat, sharing with the landlady and a room full of students. Her studies were a deep plunge into literature and language—everyone in her group fell in love with the engaging lecturers. But after class, homesickness pressed in. Too few friends yet. She grabbed lunches at the university canteen, wandering streets until dark. The city’s beauty felt strange, cold, lonely. At night she’d climb the steep Metalworks Hill near the main university building, past private homes, limping from new, pinching shoes. The kitchen in her rented flat was filled with the smell of apples; Dad had brought crates for the landlady as thanks. That mellow smell made her eyes fill, soul restless in her chest. Her hostel roommates were students from Germany—Viola, Maggie, Marion—and their babble of German gave her headaches by evening. She’d step outside to smoke, often joined by her German mates who borrowed cigarettes and always paid for them. They were fascinated by the pickled tomatoes Olga’s mum sent, devouring them with fried potatoes. When Olga’s pantry was bare, the Germans produced sausage beyond any English student’s dreams, but rarely shared. In May, their exchange program ended; they left behind piles of German boots, bought especially for the Russian winter. British students nabbed them on the sly. *** “Oggy, chop the cabbage for me, I’ll dig up some carrots. Broth’s ready.” The kitchen windows fogged up. The giant cabbage bloomed lace-green on the board, Olga tasting a leaf—nothing beats homegrown! She chopped energetically, sweet scent swirling, flung open the window: in blew the promise of autumn leaves, bonfires, apples. She saw Dad from the back: the spade going in with effort—she knew his back ached. Dropping the knife, she rushed outside, hugged him. He turned, embraced her, kissed her hair. That evening only her sister Irina arrived; Mum had a headache, stayed home. *** Then came university, a whirlwind marriage, her first job at the “Pioneer” factory paper, Dad’s first heart attack, a daughter born, even a divorce. So much in five years. Olga’s husband left for someone else; she lived with toddler Marisha in a rented flat. Dad came biweekly, loaded down with groceries, playing with Marisha. “Oggy, don’t be cross with Mum for coming less often, okay? She gets car sick… And, well, she might have a new gentleman…” “Dad! Come on—you’re not serious!” Dad laughed, bitterness lacing his voice. Silenced. Olga suddenly saw how pale and old he’d grown, even stopped whistling. “Dad, how about I take some holiday and we all go to the cottage with Marisha, while it’s still warm?” *** The garden was deep in leaves—the final warm week of October. A fire in the stove, tea steeped with blackcurrant leaves, Olga frying potato cakes in a hurry. Dad raked leaves; Marisha “helped,” scattering and laughing. The oil spat and popped. Deep in the orchard, Dad’s whistle drifted back. By evening, the bonfire burned. The street was empty, neighbour’s gardens shadowy. Dad threaded thick bread onto cherry twigs for roasting, helping Marisha hold them over the flames. Olga stretched her cold hands to the fire, lost in its spell. She remembered her first student work trip to Yorkshire—guitar songs under the stars, intoxication with the night’s mystery rather than any one crush. Faces in firelight each held their own secrets. That’s where she met her future husband. This week, work called her up to consider joining the Labour Party; the night before she crammed party manifestos, felt grilled about her divorce and morals. Nearly in tears, a colleague leapt to defend her: “This is a meeting of bullies, not comrades!” Years later, she’d shudder at the memory. After dark, they doused the fire. At the gate, a car stopped—a door slammed. Mum, radiant in a stylish coat, arrived with a work colleague who’d driven her over. Marisha ran to her gran; Dad frowned, awkwardly kissed Mum. “Who was that?” “Sasha, it doesn’t matter, just a lift from work—you don’t know him.” Dinner was tense, Marisha fussy. Mum asked about work, distracted, Dad glared at her, shoulders sinking ever lower. Evening ruined. *** Within a year, Dad was gone. A massive heart attack—gone in two days, early in a warm golden October. Straight after the funeral, Olga took leave and went to the cottage. Marisha stayed with her grandmother. Everything fell out of her hands. The harvest was immense. Olga handed buckets of apples to neighbours, cooked preserves with mint and cinnamon—as Dad loved. Dad’s old comrade came round to help; together, they’d go to Wisley for rare saplings. “I’ll stay a few days, Oggy, dig the garden, prune trees, if you’re okay.” “Oh Mr Atkin… Thank you!” The “Oggy” brought tears. In that moment, the bleakness, orphanhood, finality hit. Before then, she’d half hoped Dad would return, that it was all a bad dream. First mornings after losing him, during that edge of sleep, she’d fumble to remember what was so wrong—then it would hit, wave after wave—Dad was gone. The guilt followed: why hadn’t she kept him earthbound? “Don’t sell the cottage, promise? I’ll come, help, every time. You know, Oggy, we picked this apple tree together, you were just a kid. On the way to Wisley, Sasha talked more about you than your big sister. You were so small, funny. He always said the trees would outlast him. Many times, I rushed him to pick a sapling!” Mr Atkin stayed three days, tilled soil, pruned apples, spread fertiliser, planted three yellow chrysanthemums in memory of Dad. “A bit late to plant, but the autumn’s mild—they’ll flourish. For Sasha.” Roses still needed wrapping, but that would have to wait for spring. They hugged goodbye. The drizzle grew; Olga watched him retreat through the gate until he turned and waved her inside. Rain hammered the roof and slammed the gate with a mournful creak. The porch was scattered with yellow petals. Everything was Dad’s and always would be—rain, trees, autumn scents, the very soil. He was still there, somehow, and always would be. Olga would learn, would return with Marisha even in cold weather—just two hours by coach. Come spring, maybe she’d get central heating sorted. Start saving soon. She’d definitely go to Wisley with Mr Atkin, pick out white currants—Dad had always wanted some. *** Six months later, early April, as the last snow held on, the cottage was sold. Olga found out by accident, on the telephone at the post office, dialing home after a trip to Wisley. In the cramped little phone booth, at her feet in a bag, nestled a white currant sapling, wrapped damply at the roots with an old children’s t-shirt.