The Daytime Cuckoo Outstayed Her Welcome — “She has got to be joking!” Sasha erupted. “Yura, get in here! Now!” Her husband, who’d just kicked off his trainers in the hallway, popped his head into the doorway, loosening his shirt collar. “Sash, what is it this time? I’ve literally just finished work and my head is splitting…” “What is it?!” Sasha pointed at the edge of the bath. “Take a good look. Where’s my shampoo? Where’s my hair mask—the one I bought yesterday?” Yura squinted at the neat row of bottles. There stood a massive bottle of tar shampoo, an oversized “Nettle & Burdock” conditioner, and a heavy glass jar of some thick brown cream. “Uh… Mum brought her own toiletries. Maybe it’s easier for her to have everything at hand?” he mumbled, avoiding her glare. “Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! Now look down.” Sasha crouched and pulled a plastic basin from under the bath. In it lay her expensive French products, her loofah, and her razor. “What is this, Yura? She dumped all my things into this grotty old basin and lined up her stuff on display!” She’s decided my things belong next to the mop while her precious ‘Burdock’ gets pride of place!” Yura heaved a sigh. “Sash, don’t start. Mum’s having a rough time, you know that. Look, I’ll put your things back and then we can have dinner—Mum’s made stuffed cabbage, by the way.” “I’m not having her stuffed cabbage,” Sasha snapped. “Why is she always hanging about here, Yura?! Why does she act like she owns my house?!” I feel like a lodger, lucky for toilet access. Sasha shoved past him and stormed off, while Yura quietly nudged her basin back under the bath with his foot. The housing headache that’s ruined the lives of millions never touched Yura and Sasha. Yura’s spacious modern one-bed flat, inherited from his grandfather; Sasha’s comfy little place from her grandmother. After their wedding, they moved into his place—for the fresh decor and the air conditioning—and rented Sasha’s out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents were maintained in a state of polite neutrality, occasionally drifting into gentle fondness. Svetlana and her reserved husband Victor lived clear across town. Once a week: tea, obligatory questions about work and health, swapped smiles. “Oh, Sasha darling, you’ve lost even more weight,” Svetlana would remark, handing her a too-large slice of Battenberg. “Yura! Aren’t you feeding your wife?” “Mum, we just go to the gym,” Yura would shrug. That was that. No surprise visits, no household advice. Sasha even bragged to friends: “I lucked out with my mother-in-law. She’s pure gold—never interferes, never nags, never fusses at Yura.” Everything changed on a rain-soaked Tuesday when Victor, after thirty-two years with Svetlana, packed his bag, left a note—“Gone to the coast, don’t look for me!”—blocked her everywhere and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just an expression, but a forty-something health-spa manager in Brighton where they’d holidayed for three summers. Svetlana’s world collapsed. The weeping started, along with late-night calls and endless nitpicking: “How could he? Why? Sasha darling, how could this happen?!” At first, Sasha sympathised. She fetched calming teas, listened to the same tales, and nodded politely as Svetlana damned her “roving old fool.” But her patience wore thin as the “poor me” chorus grated on her nerves. “Yura, your mum’s called five times—before lunch,” Sasha sighed at breakfast. “She asked you to go fit a lightbulb. In her corridor. When will this end?” His face fell. “She’s lonely, Sash. You know she lived her whole life depending on Dad, and now…” “Look, she could just call someone in—or do it herself. But it has to be you. Or me. Why should I care?” Sleepovers followed—Yura started staying at his mum’s. “Sash, Mum’s scared to sleep alone,” he’d mutter, stuffing a bag. “The quiet gets to her. I’ll be back in a few days, okay?” “A few days?” Sasha frowned. “Yura, we’ve only just married and you’re already moving out half the week. I don’t want to sleep alone.” “Babe, it’s only for a bit. She’ll get through it…” ‘Only’ lasted a month. Svetlana insisted—her son must camp at her place four nights a week. There were faked dizzy spells, panics, even self-made blocked sinks. Sasha watched her husband drain himself running between two homes—and made the mistake that would haunt her daily. * She decided to clear the air with her mother-in-law. “Listen, Svetlana,” she ventured during Sunday lunch, “If it’s so hard for you alone in your flat, why not come here during the day?” Yura would be at work; Sasha often worked from home. She’d have the city centre, parks; Sasha expected a couple visits a week, arriving around noon, leaving before Yura. But Svetlana had her own plan—she showed up at exactly 7am. “Who’s that?” muttered Yura, sleepily at the doorbell. He answered it. “It’s me!” came Svetlana’s cheery voice. “Brought you some lovely fresh cottage cheese!” Sasha pulled the duvet over her head. “For heaven’s sake…” she hissed. “Yura, it’s seven a.m.! Where does she even get ‘fresh’ cottage cheese at this hour?” “Mum’s an early riser,” Yura muttered, pulling on trousers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll let her in.” From then on, life became hell. Svetlana didn’t just drop by—she colonised the flat for a full eight hours. Sasha tried working at her laptop, but the running commentary never stopped: “Sash, how haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth—let’s just sort that.” “Svetlana, I’m working—I have a call in five minutes!” “Oh, you and your ‘calls,’ just watching videos. By the way, darling, you’re ironing Yura’s shirts all wrong. The creases should be razor-sharp.” Let me show you, while you wait for your so-called ‘clients.’ Everything was criticised. How she sliced veg: “Yura likes them in matchsticks, not cubes like school dinners.” How she made the bed: “The bedspread should touch the floor, not hover midway.” The bathroom’s aroma: “Should be fresh and sweet, not damp and musty.” “Sash, don’t take it personally,” came Svetlana’s voice over her shoulder at the hob. “Your soup’s too salty. Yura’s stomach is sensitive, you know.” Sasha was close to exploding by lunchtime—she’d leave for a café just to avoid the constant criticism, then return home even more upset. First, a garish mug—“Best Mum Ever”—appeared in the kitchen. Next, her spare mac hung in the hallway; then, a whole shelf in the wardrobe for “change of clothes” and a couple old lady dressing gowns. “Why do you need dressing gowns here?” Sasha asked, discovering the fluffy pink monstrosity in with her silks. “Well, my dear, I’m here all day—I get tired, want to change into something comfy. We’re family now—why are you so cross?” To every complaint, Yura replied the same way: “Sash, be kind. She’s had it tough. Just let her feel at home. Does it really hurt to sacrifice a shelf?” “It’s not the shelf, Yura—your mum is edging me out of my own home!” “You’re exaggerating. She helps—cooks, cleans; you always said you hated ironing.” “I’d rather look crumpled than wear anything she’s ironed!” Sasha barked. But her husband just wouldn’t listen. * The bottles in the bath tipped her over the edge. “Yura, come eat—your food’s going cold!” Svetlana called from the kitchen. “Sasha, love, I left the hot sauce off yours—knew you wouldn’t want it.” Sasha stormed to the kitchen. “Svetlana, why did you move my things under the bath?” Svetlana didn’t even blink. She set a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled. “Oh those old bottles? They were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell—knocked me sick. I put out my tried and tested ones. Yours are fine down there until you need them—keeps things neat.” “I mind,” said Sasha. “This is my bathroom. My things. My home!” “Oh, don’t be silly, love—this is Yura’s flat. Of course you’re the woman of the house, but still… a little respect for your husband’s mother wouldn’t hurt.” Yura, hovering in the doorway, paled. “Mum, come on… Sasha’s got a flat too—we just live here…” “What, that old granny-flat?” Svetlana scoffed. “Yura, eat up. See, your wife’s in a mood—probably just hungry.” Sasha looked at her husband, waiting: Waiting for him to say: “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed a line. Pack up and go home.” Yura hesitated, glanced between them both—and just sat down. “Sash, come eat. Let’s just talk it over. Mum, you shouldn’t have moved Sasha’s things…” “See!” Svetlana cried triumphantly. “My son gets it. You’re just being selfish, Sasha. Family means sharing everything.” Sasha’s last thread of patience snapped. “Everything shared?” she repeated coldly. “Fine.” She turned and walked out. Yura called after her but she ignored him, packing her bags in under twenty minutes, leaving Svetlana’s “tried and tested” products in place. She left to the soundtrack of her husband’s pleading and her mother-in-law’s not-so-subtle jibes. *** Sasha had no intention of returning to her husband; she filed for divorce almost immediately after her “escape.” Her soon-to-be-ex rings her daily, begging her to come home, while his mother quietly ferries more of her things into his flat. And Sasha is certain—that’s all her mother-in-law ever wanted.

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 2

The Daytime Cuckoo Out-Cuckooed Us All

For heavens sake, shes having a laugh! Lucy huffed. James! Get in here. Now!

Her husband peered around the bathroom door, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, the fresh scent of the commute still clinging to him.

What now, Luce? Ive just finished work my heads pounding…

What now? Lucy gestured dramatically at the edge of the bath. Have a proper look. Wheres my shampoo gone? Wheres the hair masque I only bought yesterday?

James squinted, scanning the perfectly arranged line of bottles.

Dominating the display was a jumbo-sized bottle of Tar Shampoo, a suspicious own-brand Burdock & Mint concoction, and, for reasons unknown, a heavy glass jar of face cream the colour of weak tea.

Um Mum brought her bits over. She probably just wanted things to be handy he muttered, suddenly finding the ceiling extremely fascinating.

Convenient? James, she doesnt even live here! Now look down.

Lucy squatted and pulled out a plastic washing-up bowl from under the tub. Inside lay her pricey French toiletries, together with her flannel and razor, looking frankly wounded.

So, whats this then, James? Shes dumped all my stuff in this mucky bowl and lined hers up?

Apparently, her things belonged nestled next to a mop, while his mums Burdock was gracing the limelight.

James managed a weary sigh.

Lucy, come on, dont start. Mums really struggling right now, you know that. Let me just put everything back and well eat? Shes knocked up some stuffed cabbage, by the way.

Im not eating her stuffed cabbage, Lucy shot back. And why is she constantly camping out here, anyway? Why does she act like she owns the place?!

I feel like a lodger, graciously permitted to share the loo.

Pushing past her husband, Lucy stormed out, while James meekly shimmied the bowl of her things back under the bath with his foot.

Unlike the age-old property drama thats ruined countless lives, Lucy and James had been spared that particular misery.

James lived in a spacious one-bed flat in a shiny new-build, inherited from his paternal grandad. Lucy had her grandmothers cosy flat in a leafy suburb. After the wedding, theyd settled in Jamess new carpets and air-conditioning trumped all. Lucy let out her flat to a respectable family.

Meetings with Jamess family followed the terms of a peace treaty, with occasional outbreaks of polite warmth.

Sue Archer and her husband, the eternally silent Victor, lived clear across town. Once a week theyd do tea, exchange strictly surface-level news, and smile their most neutral smiles.

Oh, Lucy, youre looking positively willowy! Sue would exclaim mid-cheesecake. James, are you feeding your poor wife at all?

Mum, were just going to the gym, thats all, James would mumble, not looking up.

And that was that. No surprise visits, no-marital management tips. Lucy boasted to friends:

I lucked out with my mother-in-law. Absolute gold. Keeps out of everything, doesnt nag, doesnt harass James.

It all fell apart one grim Tuesday when Victor, after thirty-two years of marriage, packed a suitcase, left a note on the kitchen table (Off to the seaside, dont look for me!), blocked all calls, and vanished.

Turned out a midlife crisis was less a figure of speech and more a spry entertainment manager from a Bognor Regis holiday camp theyd been visiting three summers running.

For sixty-year-old Sue, the world flipped upside down.

First came the tears, then the 3 a.m. why-did-he-do-this phone calls, the endless searching of Why?

How could he? Why, Lucy, WHY?!

Lucy was honestly sympathetic at first. Shed drive over with chamomile tea, listen to the same stories for the millionth time, and politely nod as Sue cursed the old goat.

Still, her patience thinned quickly the constant wailing became intolerable.

James, shes rung me five times this morning, Lucy remarked over breakfast one day. Wants you to pop over and change a lightbulb. In the hallway.

I get it, but whens it going to end?

Jamess face took on a tragic air.

Shes lonely, Lucy. Shes only ever lived with Dad, and he You know. Please dont be hard on her.

She could change it herself, I could send an odd-job man, but no it has to be you. Or me. Do I need this?

Overnights at his mums followed. She cant sleep alone, James admitted, stuffing a bag. Says the silence is too much. Ill stay with her a night or two, love, okay?

A night or two? Lucy frowned. Weve only just got married and youre already fleeing the flat? I dont want to sleep alone half the week.

Lu, its just temporary. Shell bounce back soon.

Temporary dragged on for a month.

Sue insisted James spend four evenings a week with her, tallying up made-up blood pressure, invented panic attacks, and home-made plumbing disasters.

Lucy watched her husband exhaust himself trying to please both sides and later regretted her next move more than anything.

***
She decided to have a frank chat with Sue.

Look, Sue, she said over roast chicken one Sunday, if youre struggling to be alone, why dont you spend time with us here during the day? James works all day, and Im often working from home. You can stroll round the park, do a crossword on our sofa. James can run you home each evening.

Sue eyed her with baffling delight.

Youre so clever, Lucy! Why *am* I moping at home all day?

Lucy expected a couple of visits a week, mid-morning arrivals, Sue gone long before James got home

Sue, however, had her own vision she turned up promptly at 7am.

Whos that? mumbled James, half-asleep as the doorbell blared.

He opened the door groggily.

Its me! Sues voice warbled through the intercom. Brought you some fresh cottage cheese!

Lucy yanked the duvet over her head.

Seriously?! she hissed to herself. Where on earth does one find fresh cottage cheese at this hour?

Mum wakes early, James was already hunting for trousers. Go back to sleep, Ill let her in.

From then on, life became a sitcom from hell. Sue didnt just visit she *moved in* for the working day.

Lucy tried to focus on her laptop, but the soundtrack was relentless:

Lucy, you missed a bit of dust on the telly, Ill just go over it with a cloth.

Sue, Im in a Zoom call in five minutes!

Oh come on, youre just staring at pictures. And by the by, youre ironing Jamess shirts all wrong the creases should be perfect. Let me show you, while youre waiting for clients.

Everything was under review.

How the veg was chopped: James likes them julienned, not cubed like a school lunch.

How the bed was made: The covers meant to touch the floor, not just muddle about.

How the bathroom smelt: Supposed to be fresh, but its all a bit musty in here.

Dont be offended, love, Sue would peer into the saucepan, but youve oversalted this soup. James has always been used to diet food delicate tummy, you know?

Youll ruin him with your spicy ways. Off you go, Ill fix it.

It was delicious, Lucy grated out, clenching her fists. He had two bowls yesterday!

Oh, hes just being polite he doesnt want to upset you, thats all.

By lunch, Lucy would be on the brink. She escaped to coffee shops for hours, just to avoid that soothing, endlessly corrective tone.

When she came home, raging, there were fresh invasions.

First, Sues favourite mug appeared: an enormous, lurid Best Mum monstrosity. Then, a raincoat appeared on the peg, and a week later, Lucy discovered a whole shelf surrendered to Sues spares and a couple of flowery housecoats.

Why do you have housecoats here? Lucy asked, finding a fluffy pink beast nestled between her silk lingerie.

Well, dear, Im here all day. Its nice to change into something comfy. Were all family, why look so glum?

James had only one response to Lucys complaints:

Oh come on, Lucy, be reasonable. Shes lost her husband. You can spare a shelf.

I dont care about the shelf, James! Your mum is shoving me out of my own home!

Youre exaggerating. Shes cooking, cleaning you said yourself you hate ironing.

Id rather walk around wrinkled than wear anything shes pressed! Lucy barked.

But he never seemed to hear.

***
The bathroom bottles were the last straw.

James, come on dinners getting cold! called Sue from the kitchen. Lucy, come along, I left the chilli sauce out your portion I know you cant handle spice.

Lucy stormed in as Sue bustled about, owning the kitchen.

Sue, Lucy forced civility. Why did you move all my things under the bath?

Sue didnt even flinch. She gently placed a fork beside Jamess plate and smiled.

Oh Lucy, you mean those bottles? They were nearly empty and a bit whiffy if Im honest made my head ache!

So I put out my reliable ones and tucked yours neatly away.

Youre not bothered are you? Things needed a tidy.

Well, I *am* bothered, Lucy advanced. Its my bathroom. My stuff. My home!

Oh, is it, dear? Sue sat, hand to heart, audibly sighing. The flats Jamess really.

Youre the lady of the house, of course, but a husbands mother needs respect.

James stood frozen at the door.

Mum, lets not Lucy has a place too, we just chose to live here…

Oh, but hers is just a granny flat, nothing special! Sue waved it off. Sit down, darling. Your wifes in a mood probably just hungry.

Lucy looked at her husband. She waited.

Waited for him to say, Mum, enough. Youve crossed a line. Pack up and go home.

James hovered awkwardly a moment, flicking his gaze from mother to wife, and finally just sat down at the table.

Lucy, please, just eat. Lets talk this out, calmly. Mum, you were wrong to move things

There, see?! My son understands, Sue crowed. Youre far too possessive, Lucy. Family is about sharing everything.

Lucys patience snapped at last.

Everything? she echoed. Right.

She turned and walked out.

James called after, but the words barely reached her. She packed her things in twenty minutes flat, stuffing it all into suitcases.

She didnt bother with the bathroom bottles shed get new ones.

She left to the soundtrack of Jamess whining pleas and Sues not-so-subtle jibes.

***
Lucy had no intention of going back to James she filed for divorce almost straight away.

Her soon-to-be-ex rang her every day, begging her to return, while Sue gradually hauled her hoard fully into Jamess bachelor pad.

Lucy was quite sure this was the plan all along.

That Lingering Disgust “It’s over, there’s not going to be any wedding!” cried Marina. “Wait, what happened?” Illya stammered. “Everything seemed fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Well… fine. Except,” she paused for a few feverish seconds, trying to work out how to explain it… then blurted out the simple truth, “your socks stink! I’m not ready to live with that smell for the rest of my life!” “Is that honestly what you told him?” Marina’s mother gasped when her daughter announced she was withdrawing the marriage application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the would-be bride. “It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.” “Of course I noticed,” mum said, embarrassed, “but… that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a good lad, after all. And socks—well, that’s fixable.” “How?” Marina shot back. “Teach him to wash his feet? Change his socks? Use deodorant? Listen to yourself, mum! I was supposed to be getting married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an overgrown boy!” “Then why did you get involved with him? Why submit the application?” “That was all you, mum! ‘Illy is such a kind, lovely boy. I really like him’—your words! And let’s not forget: ‘You’re twenty-seven. It’s time you got married and gave me grandchildren.’ Why are you silent now? Is that not so?” “But, Marin, I never thought you were still unsure. I thought it was serious between you two,” her mum replied, “and, you know, I’m glad I was right about you: you thought it over and made your choice. Just, darling, the stinky socks thing… it’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you at all.” “I did it on purpose, mum. So it was clear. In a way that would make sure there’s no going back…” *** At first, Illya struck Marina as funny and a little awkward. Always in the same jeans and t-shirt. He didn’t show off about Picasso, but could go on for hours about old films. In those moments, his eyes would positively sparkle. He was easy to be with. Peaceful. And that peacefulness attracted Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and the hunt for ‘the one’. After two months of cinema trips and coffee dates, Illya shyly suggested, “Maybe come back to mine? I’ll make you homemade dumplings—made them myself!” The invitation was so warm, so homely it made Marina’s heart leap. And that ‘I made them myself’—it floored her. She agreed… *** Marina didn’t like Illya’s flat. No grime, but chaos, lack of taste, and a strange sense of neglect. Grey paint peeling off, an ancient sofa with just one shabby cushion. Stacks on the floor—boxes, books, old magazines. Trainers in the centre. Plus, stale air thick with dust and must. The room felt like a transit lounge waiting for someone to finally move out—but nobody did. “What do you think of my castle?” Illya spread his arms, smiling without a hint of embarrassment. He was proud! Genuinely blind to anything odd. Marina forced a smile. She liked the guy—no need for fights. Onwards to the kitchen. Not much better: a dust-filmed table, sink full of dirty dishes and limescaled mugs, battered saucepan on the hob. Her eyes caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” Marina mused. Her mood soured. She half-listened to Illya’s stories, his attempts to make her laugh. But when he handed her the dumplings, she refused, blamed the diet… She had no intention of putting anything prepared in that kitchen in her mouth. Later at home, Marina analysed the visit. At first glance, Illya’s place was nothing major. A guy living alone, what’s the big deal? But beneath that untidiness there was something else, something huge and abstract—how can someone live this way? Not laziness, but… for him, this was normal! There was, well… that lingering disgust. *** Then Illya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed for the notice. Her parents started prepping for the wedding. To be a bride—lovely. Yet, whenever Marina was alone, thinking of Illya’s ceaseless efforts to please her, his dumpling-making and joke-cracking, the image of the inexplicably coloured kettle surfaced. And Marina realised: that kettle wasn’t just a kettle. It was a clue. A clue to Illya’s attitude to life, to the home, to himself—and probably to her. One time, Marina imagined their morning together and was horrified. She’d wake, come into the kitchen, find cold tea and bread crumbs. When she’d say, “Darling, please tidy up,” he’d stare in surprise, just as he did at his own flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t yell. He just… wouldn’t get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. Her love would slowly die from a thousand tiny stabs he’d never even see. And mum was thrilled her daughter was getting married. *** Getting married… All the warmth Marina once felt with Illya seeped away, replaced by a nagging sense of dread. “Marina,” Illya would ask anxiously, peering into her eyes each day. “We’re okay, aren’t we? We love each other?” “Of course,” she’d reply, aware something inside her was breaking. Eventually, she confided in her friend. “So what?” Katya was baffled. “A bit of dust, a kettle? My husband would leave a tank in the kitchen if he could and never even notice. Men don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see,” Marina whispered. “And he never will. But I will! Every day! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, Marina didn’t blame him. He hadn’t deceived her. He was nothing but sincere. He simply lived in another world—a world where a dirty plate was normal. For her, it signaled misunderstanding and indifference. It wasn’t about hygiene. It was about seeing the world differently. The crack in her mind would only grow into a chasm. Better to end things now than to find herself at the bottom of that pit in a few years’ time. She just had to wait for the moment… *** Illya and Marina were invited to a house party. They arrived, took off shoes in the hallway… Walked in… The unpleasant smell trailed right behind. Marina didn’t immediately realise where the stink was coming from—but when she saw that everyone else realised too, she wanted the ground to swallow her. Without a word, she dashed to the hall, threw her coat on, and left. Illya chased her. Caught up, grabbed her hand. She whirled and threw it at his face, almost hatefully: “That’s it! There’s not going to be a wedding!” *** And there wasn’t. Marina thinks she did the right thing—and has no regrets. As for Illya… He still doesn’t get it: what was the problem, really? Stinky socks, so what? He could have just taken them off…

The Awakening That Turned Life Upside Down Until the age of twenty-seven, Mike lived like a spring brook—loudly, recklessly, and without a care. He was the life and soul of the village, restless and full of mischief. He could gather his mates after a long day’s work to go fishing three miles away, returning at dawn only to immediately lend a hand fixing a neighbour’s shed. “Lord, that Mike is a wild one, always carefree,” the old folks would shake their heads. “He lives without a thought in his head—reckless, that’s the word,” his mother sighed. “What’s so special? He’s just living like the rest of us,” shrugged his mates who already had families, gardens, and homes of their own. But then he turned twenty-seven. It wasn’t like thunder from the sky, but quiet—like the first wilted leaf falling from an apple tree. One morning, he awoke at dawn to the sound of a rooster’s cry, not as a call to a day of fun, but as a reproach. An emptiness he’d never noticed before rang in his ears. He looked around: his parents’ house, sturdy but ageing, needing a man’s hands not just for an hour, but for life. His father, bent from years of care, talked more and more about haymaking and feed prices. Things changed for Mike at a distant relative’s country wedding. Mike, ever the entertainer, was joking and dancing. Then in the corner, he saw his father quietly chatting with a silver-haired neighbour. They watched his uninhibited cheerfulness without judgment, only weary sadness. At that moment, Mike saw himself with brutal clarity—not a boy, but a grown man dancing to someone else’s tune as life quietly slipped by. No purpose, no roots, nothing of his own. He felt uneasy. The next morning, he woke anew. The reckless ease had vanished, replaced by a calm heaviness, a sense of adulthood. He stopped flitting to every party, took over his late grandfather’s abandoned plot on the edge of the village near the woods, cut the grass, felled two dead trees. At first, the villagers teased him. “Mike’s building a house? He can’t even hammer in a nail straight!” But he learned, clumsily, often hitting his fingers instead of the nails. He obtained permission to chop wood, dug up stumps. The money he once squandered now saved for nails, tiles, and glass. He worked from dawn to dusk, silently, stubbornly. By evening, he slept with a new feeling—that the day hadn’t been wasted. Two years passed. On that plot stood a modest but solid cabin, smelling of pine and fresh wood. Nearby—a bathhouse, built by his own hands. In the garden, the first vegetable rows appeared. Mike lost weight, was tanned, and the carelessness in his eyes was replaced by steadiness. His father came to see his new house, offered help, but Mike refused. His father wandered around in silence, inspected corners, peered inside. Then he praised his son. “Solid work…” “Thanks, Dad,” Mike replied quietly. “Now you need a bride—a homemaker,” his father said. Mike smiled, gazing at his handiwork and the dark forest rising beyond. “I’ll find one, Dad. Everything in its own time.” He slung his axe over his shoulder and went to the woodpile. His movements were slow and sure. That careless, worry-free life was a memory, replaced by a life of concern and hard work. But for the first time in twenty-nine years, Mike felt truly at home—not just under his parents’ roof, but in a home of his own. That reckless, empty youth was gone. Then came the discovery, on a typical summer morning as Mike prepared to drive to the woods for firewood. He was starting his old Ford when she emerged from the neighbour’s gate—Julia. The very same Julia he remembered as a tomboy with two plaits, always scraped knees, who’d left for university to train as a teacher. Out of that gate walked not a girl, but a beautiful young woman. Sunlight played in her golden hair, tumbling over her shoulders. Her walk was upright and elegant, a simple dark dress hugged her figure, and her eyes—always laughing—now shone with new, warm depth. She was thoughtful, adjusting her shoulder bag, unaware at first of Mike’s stare. Mike was dumbfounded, forgetting the engine, forgetting the woods. His heart pounded stupidly. “When? God, when did you become so beautiful? Only yesterday you were a scruffy kid…” She caught his stunned gaze, stopped, and smiled—a smile not of a neighbour’s girl, but one both shy and tender. “Morning, Mike. Can’t start the car?” Her voice was velvet, with none of the girlish squeak when she called him a “tiddler.” “Julia… Jules…” was all he managed. “To school?” “Yep,” she nodded. “My lessons start soon, can’t be late.” She walked away, light on the dusty lane. And Mike watched her, while amid his calculations of logs and walls, a clear, blinding thought struck: “She’s the one. She’s who I should marry.” He had no idea that for Julia, this morning had been one of the happiest in years—because finally, that wild, oblivious Mike had seen her. Not through her, not as a piece of furniture, but truly saw her. “Is it possible? I’ve wished for this since I was thirteen. He always called me ‘kiddo’. I cried when he went off to the army. Older girls hung on him, and I was left out. I even returned to the village to work in the school—because of him.” Her quiet, secret affection for her older neighbour boy suddenly sparked hope. She walked on, barely suppressing a smile under his intense, bewildered gaze. Mike never made it to the woods that day. He wandered around his new cabin, chopped wood furiously, fixated on one thought: “How did I never notice? She’s always been nearby, growing up, while I chased other girls…” That evening at the village well, he saw Julia again. Returning home, tired, with the same bag. “Julia—Jules,” he called out, surprised by his own boldness. “How’s… the job? Are your pupils still cheeky and wild?” She stopped by the fence, her eyes weary but kind and lovely. “It’s work, you know. Kids are kids—noisy, but they make your heart glad. I love working with them, they’re inventive… And your new house is solid.” “Not finished yet,” he muttered. “Everything unfinished can be finished, you know,” she said softly, suddenly bashful about her own wisdom, and waved goodbye. “Alright, see you.” “Everything can be finished,” Mike repeated to himself, “and not just the house.” From then on, his life had a new goal. He was building not just any house—but a home for someone. He knew exactly who he wanted to bring there. He imagined living there with the woman he loved. Flower pots on the windowsill, not jars of nails. Sitting together on the porch, not alone. He didn’t rush, wary of spoiling his quiet dream. Mike “happened to” cross Julia’s path more often, first just nodding, then asking about her class. “How are your pupils?” He’d often see her outside, surrounded by noisy children calling, “Goodbye, Miss Julia…” One day he brought her a whole basket of wild forest nuts. Julia accepted his shy gestures warmly. She saw how he’d changed—from impulsive lad to steady, reliable man. And the feeling she’d long cherished blossomed strong. As autumn drew in, low heavy clouds gathered over the village. When Mike’s house was nearly finished, he couldn’t wait. He waited by Julia’s gate, clutching a bunch of bright red rowan berries. “Julia,” he said nervously, “the house is almost done. But… it feels so empty. Awfully empty. Would you come see it sometime? Actually—I want to ask for your hand in marriage. I’ve known for a long time how much you mean to me.” Mike looked at her with earnest, slightly scared eyes, and Julia saw everything she’d waited for. She gently took the rowan berries from his work-toughened hand, pressed them to her heart. “You know, Mike,” she whispered, “I’ve watched that house go up from the very first log. I always wondered what it would be like inside, waiting for you to invite me… I’ve dreamed of this. So yes, I’ll come…” For the first time in months of shyness and beauty, her eyes flashed with the same spirited spark he’d once missed—the spark that, it turned out, had only been waiting for its moment to truly shine. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing everyone luck and happiness!

Don’t Stir Up the Past Often, Tessa reflects on her life now that she’s crossed the fifty-year threshold. She can’t call her married life happy—and all because of her husband, George. When they were young, they married for love, both devoted to one another. Yet somehow, something changed in George, and she missed the moment it happened. They lived in a country village, sharing a house with George’s mother, Anne. Tessa worked to keep peace and respected her mother-in-law, who was always warm towards her. Tessa’s own mother lived in the next village with her younger son, frequently ill. “Anne, how do you get on with your daughter-in-law, Tessa?” idle gossips would ask when meeting by the well, in the shop, or just along the lane. “Nothing bad to say about Tessa—she’s respectful, manages the house well, and helps me in everything,” Anne would always answer. “Oh, as if! When did a mother-in-law ever praise her daughter-in-law? We don’t buy it,” the neighbours would retort. “Well, that’s your business,” Anne would reply, moving on. Tessa had a daughter, Vanessa, and everyone rejoiced. “Tessa, Vanessa’s got my nose!” claimed Anne, trying to spot her own features in her granddaughter while Tessa laughed—it didn’t matter to her who the child resembled. When Vanessa turned three, Tessa gave birth to a son. More joyful, busy days followed. George worked, Tessa kept house with the children, and Anne helped tremendously. Life ticked along quietly, perhaps even better than most—George wasn’t a drinker, unlike other husbands who’d be found by the village club, so drunk their wives dragged them home, cursing their fate. While expecting her third child, Tessa learned George was cheating. In the close-knit village, word spread fast about George and Tina, the local widow. The neighbour, Val, wasn’t shy about sharing. “Tessa, you’re carrying George’s third child and he’s running around. He’s ungrateful—chasing other women.” “Val, really? I haven’t noticed anything unusual,” Tessa replied, surprised. “Of course you haven’t! You’re busy—two kids, one on the way, house, mother-in-law, farm. He lives for himself. The village knows; Tina doesn’t even hide it.” Tessa was heartbroken. Anne knew but kept silent, pitying Tessa and afraid for her. She’d scolded George, who dismissed her concerns. “Mum, you didn’t see anything. Women talk. That’s what they do.” One evening, Val rushed over. “Tessa, George just slipped into Tina’s yard—I saw it myself, just back from the shop. You want to end up alone, with three kids and no husband? Go, drag Tina out by her hair! You’re pregnant—George won’t dare hit you.” Tessa knew she didn’t have it in her to fight Tina. She was tough, a fighter, her own husband having drowned in the river. Reluctantly, Tessa went to confront George. “I’ll look him in the eyes and get the truth. He never admits anything—always says it’s gossip,” Tessa said to Anne, who tried to stop her. “Tessa, don’t do it—have mercy on yourself…” It was late autumn, already dark. Tessa knocked on Tina’s window. Tina answered from behind the door. “What do you want, banging on my windows?” “Let me in. I know George is with you—people talk.” “Yeah, right. Like I’m letting you in. Go home, stop making a show,” Tina laughed. Tessa left, knowing she wouldn’t open up. George came home drunk after midnight—rare, but it happened. His wife was awake. “Where have you been? I know about Tina. I came by, she wouldn’t answer the door…” “What are you imagining?” George bristled. “I was with Jim—drinking, lost track of time.” Tessa didn’t believe him, but held her tongue; she wasn’t one for rows. What could she do? “Innocent until proven guilty,” as they say. She lay awake all night, thinking, “Where would I go, two children, another on the way? Mum’s sick, and my brother’s family is squeezed in already—even if I did leave, how could we fit?” Her mother had always advised endurance when Tessa complained about George’s affairs. “Endure, love; you married, you have children. Do you think I had it easier with your father? He drank, chased us—remember hiding at neighbours’? God took him, but I endured. At least George isn’t a drunk and never hits you. Women must endure, that’s always their lot.” Tessa didn’t agree entirely but understood—she couldn’t leave George. Anne helped her settle. “Daughter, where would you go with three children? Soon you’ll have the third. We’ll manage together.” Their third child, Alice, was frail and sickly—Tessa’s own distress had taken its toll during pregnancy. Over time, Alice grew stronger, thanks to Anne’s constant care. “Tessa, have you heard?” Val blurted out again—ever the village gossip. “Tina has let Mike move in; his wife threw him out.” “Who cares, let her,” Tessa replied, glad George would stay away. But a month later, Val returned. “Mike’s gone—back to his wife. Tina’ll be hunting for another man again. Keep George close; you never know…” Life settled again; Anne was pleased. But if a man’s restless, he won’t sit still. Anne bumped into her old friend Agnes on her way home from the shop. “Anne, how did George turn out like he did? Tessa’s a good woman, a good wife, even you say so—what’s his problem?” “Agnes, is George playing up again?” “He’s definitely wandering—this time with Vicky, the divorced one from the café…” Anne tried to reason with George, but he wouldn’t listen to his old mother. He shouted, told her to mind her own business. “Mum, I work, support the family, and you both accuse me—believe all the women’s gossip,” he protested. He stopped drinking entirely as the years went by. The children grew. Vanessa married and stayed in town where she attended college. Their son finished university in the city and married a local girl. Young Alice was about to finish school, planning to move to the district centre. George had quieted; now it was just work and home. With his health failing, he lay often on the settee, rarely drank—now, not at all. “Tessa, my heart’s playing up—hurts in my back.” And later, “Tessa, my knees ache. What’s that mean—joints? Maybe I should see a doctor.” Tessa felt no pity; her heart had hardened after so many tears and disappointments before George settled down. “He complains of bad health because he has to stay home—let him go and whinge to his old flames. Let them look after him now,” she thought. Anne had passed away, buried next to her husband. Their home was quiet now. Sometimes, the children and grandchildren would visit; both parents rejoiced. George would complain to the kids about his health—even accuse Tessa of neglect. The eldest daughter brought medicine, fussed over him, and even said to her mum, “Mum, don’t go hard on Dad—he’s poorly,” which stung Tessa, as her daughter took her father’s side. “Darling, he’s to blame—he had his fun in youth and now wants sympathy. I’m not made of steel myself—I lost my health worrying over him,” Tessa defended herself. The son, too, cheered up his father when visiting—men stick together. The children couldn’t seem to understand their mother’s pain, even when she told them about George’s affairs and how she endured for their sake. How could she have left them without a father? How hard, how bitter it all was. But all she ever heard in reply was, “Mum, don’t stir up the past, stop upsetting Dad,” said the eldest. Her brother always agreed. “Mum, what’s done is done,” he comforted her and patted her shoulder. Though Tessa was hurt that her kids sided with their father, she understood—they’re just living their lives. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for all your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

The Daytime Cuckoo Outstayed Her Welcome — “She has got to be joking!” Sasha erupted. “Yura, get in here! Now!” Her husband, who’d just kicked off his trainers in the hallway, popped his head into the doorway, loosening his shirt collar. “Sash, what is it this time? I’ve literally just finished work and my head is splitting…” “What is it?!” Sasha pointed at the edge of the bath. “Take a good look. Where’s my shampoo? Where’s my hair mask—the one I bought yesterday?” Yura squinted at the neat row of bottles. There stood a massive bottle of tar shampoo, an oversized “Nettle & Burdock” conditioner, and a heavy glass jar of some thick brown cream. “Uh… Mum brought her own toiletries. Maybe it’s easier for her to have everything at hand?” he mumbled, avoiding her glare. “Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! Now look down.” Sasha crouched and pulled a plastic basin from under the bath. In it lay her expensive French products, her loofah, and her razor. “What is this, Yura? She dumped all my things into this grotty old basin and lined up her stuff on display!” She’s decided my things belong next to the mop while her precious ‘Burdock’ gets pride of place!” Yura heaved a sigh. “Sash, don’t start. Mum’s having a rough time, you know that. Look, I’ll put your things back and then we can have dinner—Mum’s made stuffed cabbage, by the way.” “I’m not having her stuffed cabbage,” Sasha snapped. “Why is she always hanging about here, Yura?! Why does she act like she owns my house?!” I feel like a lodger, lucky for toilet access. Sasha shoved past him and stormed off, while Yura quietly nudged her basin back under the bath with his foot. The housing headache that’s ruined the lives of millions never touched Yura and Sasha. Yura’s spacious modern one-bed flat, inherited from his grandfather; Sasha’s comfy little place from her grandmother. After their wedding, they moved into his place—for the fresh decor and the air conditioning—and rented Sasha’s out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents were maintained in a state of polite neutrality, occasionally drifting into gentle fondness. Svetlana and her reserved husband Victor lived clear across town. Once a week: tea, obligatory questions about work and health, swapped smiles. “Oh, Sasha darling, you’ve lost even more weight,” Svetlana would remark, handing her a too-large slice of Battenberg. “Yura! Aren’t you feeding your wife?” “Mum, we just go to the gym,” Yura would shrug. That was that. No surprise visits, no household advice. Sasha even bragged to friends: “I lucked out with my mother-in-law. She’s pure gold—never interferes, never nags, never fusses at Yura.” Everything changed on a rain-soaked Tuesday when Victor, after thirty-two years with Svetlana, packed his bag, left a note—“Gone to the coast, don’t look for me!”—blocked her everywhere and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just an expression, but a forty-something health-spa manager in Brighton where they’d holidayed for three summers. Svetlana’s world collapsed. The weeping started, along with late-night calls and endless nitpicking: “How could he? Why? Sasha darling, how could this happen?!” At first, Sasha sympathised. She fetched calming teas, listened to the same tales, and nodded politely as Svetlana damned her “roving old fool.” But her patience wore thin as the “poor me” chorus grated on her nerves. “Yura, your mum’s called five times—before lunch,” Sasha sighed at breakfast. “She asked you to go fit a lightbulb. In her corridor. When will this end?” His face fell. “She’s lonely, Sash. You know she lived her whole life depending on Dad, and now…” “Look, she could just call someone in—or do it herself. But it has to be you. Or me. Why should I care?” Sleepovers followed—Yura started staying at his mum’s. “Sash, Mum’s scared to sleep alone,” he’d mutter, stuffing a bag. “The quiet gets to her. I’ll be back in a few days, okay?” “A few days?” Sasha frowned. “Yura, we’ve only just married and you’re already moving out half the week. I don’t want to sleep alone.” “Babe, it’s only for a bit. She’ll get through it…” ‘Only’ lasted a month. Svetlana insisted—her son must camp at her place four nights a week. There were faked dizzy spells, panics, even self-made blocked sinks. Sasha watched her husband drain himself running between two homes—and made the mistake that would haunt her daily. *** She decided to clear the air with her mother-in-law. “Listen, Svetlana,” she ventured during Sunday lunch, “If it’s so hard for you alone in your flat, why not come here during the day?” Yura would be at work; Sasha often worked from home. She’d have the city centre, parks; Sasha expected a couple visits a week, arriving around noon, leaving before Yura. But Svetlana had her own plan—she showed up at exactly 7am. “Who’s that?” muttered Yura, sleepily at the doorbell. He answered it. “It’s me!” came Svetlana’s cheery voice. “Brought you some lovely fresh cottage cheese!” Sasha pulled the duvet over her head. “For heaven’s sake…” she hissed. “Yura, it’s seven a.m.! Where does she even get ‘fresh’ cottage cheese at this hour?” “Mum’s an early riser,” Yura muttered, pulling on trousers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll let her in.” From then on, life became hell. Svetlana didn’t just drop by—she colonised the flat for a full eight hours. Sasha tried working at her laptop, but the running commentary never stopped: “Sash, how haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth—let’s just sort that.” “Svetlana, I’m working—I have a call in five minutes!” “Oh, you and your ‘calls,’ just watching videos. By the way, darling, you’re ironing Yura’s shirts all wrong. The creases should be razor-sharp.” Let me show you, while you wait for your so-called ‘clients.’ Everything was criticised. How she sliced veg: “Yura likes them in matchsticks, not cubes like school dinners.” How she made the bed: “The bedspread should touch the floor, not hover midway.” The bathroom’s aroma: “Should be fresh and sweet, not damp and musty.” “Sash, don’t take it personally,” came Svetlana’s voice over her shoulder at the hob. “Your soup’s too salty. Yura’s stomach is sensitive, you know.” Sasha was close to exploding by lunchtime—she’d leave for a café just to avoid the constant criticism, then return home even more upset. First, a garish mug—“Best Mum Ever”—appeared in the kitchen. Next, her spare mac hung in the hallway; then, a whole shelf in the wardrobe for “change of clothes” and a couple old lady dressing gowns. “Why do you need dressing gowns here?” Sasha asked, discovering the fluffy pink monstrosity in with her silks. “Well, my dear, I’m here all day—I get tired, want to change into something comfy. We’re family now—why are you so cross?” To every complaint, Yura replied the same way: “Sash, be kind. She’s had it tough. Just let her feel at home. Does it really hurt to sacrifice a shelf?” “It’s not the shelf, Yura—your mum is edging me out of my own home!” “You’re exaggerating. She helps—cooks, cleans; you always said you hated ironing.” “I’d rather look crumpled than wear anything she’s ironed!” Sasha barked. But her husband just wouldn’t listen. *** The bottles in the bath tipped her over the edge. “Yura, come eat—your food’s going cold!” Svetlana called from the kitchen. “Sasha, love, I left the hot sauce off yours—knew you wouldn’t want it.” Sasha stormed to the kitchen. “Svetlana, why did you move my things under the bath?” Svetlana didn’t even blink. She set a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled. “Oh those old bottles? They were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell—knocked me sick. I put out my tried and tested ones. Yours are fine down there until you need them—keeps things neat.” “I mind,” said Sasha. “This is my bathroom. My things. My home!” “Oh, don’t be silly, love—this is Yura’s flat. Of course you’re the woman of the house, but still… a little respect for your husband’s mother wouldn’t hurt.” Yura, hovering in the doorway, paled. “Mum, come on… Sasha’s got a flat too—we just live here…” “What, that old granny-flat?” Svetlana scoffed. “Yura, eat up. See, your wife’s in a mood—probably just hungry.” Sasha looked at her husband, waiting: Waiting for him to say: “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed a line. Pack up and go home.” Yura hesitated, glanced between them both—and just sat down. “Sash, come eat. Let’s just talk it over. Mum, you shouldn’t have moved Sasha’s things…” “See!” Svetlana cried triumphantly. “My son gets it. You’re just being selfish, Sasha. Family means sharing everything.” Sasha’s last thread of patience snapped. “Everything shared?” she repeated coldly. “Fine.” She turned and walked out. Yura called after her but she ignored him, packing her bags in under twenty minutes, leaving Svetlana’s “tried and tested” products in place. She left to the soundtrack of her husband’s pleading and her mother-in-law’s not-so-subtle jibes. *** Sasha had no intention of returning to her husband; she filed for divorce almost immediately after her “escape.” Her soon-to-be-ex rings her daily, begging her to come home, while his mother quietly ferries more of her things into his flat. And Sasha is certain—that’s all her mother-in-law ever wanted.

The Black Widow Charming and intelligent Lilian met Vlad, a much older, well-known local songwriter, just before graduating from university with a degree in journalism. Vlad soon helped her land a job hosting her own show, “Heart-to-Heart Conversations,” which featured local experts and life stories. Lilian excelled on television, and her popularity grew. Eventually, she married Vlad, but his fondness for drink and lack of attention soured their marriage. Lilian pursued her career, while Vlad fell deeper into old habits. After Vlad’s sudden death from heart complications, Lilian was left wealthy and single. Her supportive but envious housekeeper Vera watched with anticipation as Lilian began rebuilding her life. Soon she met Kenneth—a big, awkward but kind businessman—at a nearby café. They fell for each other, married quietly, and honeymooned in the Maldives, where Kenneth spoiled Lilian as she’d never been before. Yet happiness remained elusive. Lilian craved passion beyond Kenneth’s gentle devotion and began an affair with the rugged and intense Andrew—a friend of a colleague. Their romance ended in tragedy when Kenneth discovered them, promptly suffering a fatal heart attack. Vera, sensing betrayal, remained a constant in Lilian’s life as she was evicted by Kenneth’s adult daughter, taking only a cash settlement and returning to her own apartment. Still grieving, Lilian’s lover Andrew was killed in a car accident. Overwhelmed by loss, she pondered whether she was cursed—“a black widow”—as friends joked darkly about her string of dead partners. Just as Lilian began to trust in happiness again, she met Mark, a young, brilliant man who captured her heart. Lilian was stunned to learn Mark was one of Britain’s wealthiest men. When he too landed in hospital with heart trouble, Lilian feared her “black widow” fate would strike again. But Mark recovered, proposed, and promised her a lifetime of true happiness and love, helping Lilian finally believe in a brighter future.

A Life-Changing Realisation That Swept Me Away Up until the age of twenty-seven, Mike lived fast and carefree, full of noise and excitement—much like a lively spring stream. Everyone around knew his reckless, quick ways. He could round up the lads after a hard day’s work and head off miles to the river with fishing rods, then be back by sunrise to lend a hand with a neighbour’s wonky shed. “Mike’s as reckless as they come, never a worry,” the village elders would say, shaking their heads. “He lives with nothing in his head, just pure recklessness,” his mum would sigh. “What’s wrong with that? He’s just living life,” his mates would shrug, having long since settled down themselves. But then twenty-seven crept up quietly for Mike—no thunderbolt, more like the gentle fall of the first brown apple leaf. One morning, woken by the cock’s crow, it hit him not as a call to a day of larking, but as a reproach. The emptiness he’d never noticed began to roar in his ears. He looked around: his parents’ solid but ageing home, in need of a strong pair of hands. His dad, bent by household worries, talking more and more about haymaking and feed prices. The turning point came at a distant relative’s country wedding. Mike, as ever the life of the party, joked, danced till he dropped. Then he saw his father quietly talking to a grey-haired neighbour, both watching his wild antics—not with scorn, but with tired sadness. Suddenly, so painfully clear: he saw himself—not a boy but a grown man, dancing to someone else’s tune as life slipped past. No purpose, no roots, nothing truly his. He felt shaken. The next morning, he woke up changed. His old reckless ease was gone, replaced by a calm heaviness and newfound adulthood. No more pointless wandering. He claimed his late grandad’s abandoned plot at the edge of the village, near the woods. Cut the grass, chopped up dead trees. At first, the locals laughed. “Mike’s building a house? He can barely hammer a nail!” He learned—clumsily, often hitting his own fingers. With permission, he chopped wood, pulled out stumps. Money that used to fly out the window now saved for nails, roofing, glass. He worked from dawn to dusk—silent, stubborn. Collapsing at night, but for the first time feeling his day had meant something. Two years on: a plain but sturdy log cabin stood on that plot, smelling of pine and newness. Next to it—a self-built bathhouse. The vegetable patch had its first crops. Mike had grown lean, tanned, his eyes steady and calm. His dad started coming over, offering help, but was always gently refused. He’d quietly inspect the house, touch the corners, look beneath the roof. Eventually, he praised him: “Solid work…” “Thanks, Dad,” Mike replied simply. “Now it’s time for you to find a bride—a homemaker,” his father said. Mike smiled, looking at what he’d created, and at the woods rising behind his work. “I will, Dad. Everything in its own time.” He shouldered his axe and walked to the woodpile, moving slow and assured. The noise and carelessness of his past were gone, replaced by a life of worry, work, but for the first time—a sense of home, not just beneath his parents’ roof, but in a home he’d built himself. That empty, reckless youth had left for good. The real discovery came one normal summer morning, as Mike was about to head off to the woods for fallen branches. He’d just started up his old Ford, when out the neighbour’s gate she came—Julie. The very Julie he’d remembered as the scruffy girl, always chasing boys around, pigtails flying, knees perpetually scuffed; last seen as a gangly teen heading off to train as a teacher. Out the gate came not a girl, but a beautiful young woman. Sunlight danced in her rye-golden hair cascading down her shoulders. She walked with confidence, simple dark dress hugging her figure, and her big, once mischievous eyes now glowed with a new, warm depth. Lost in thought, fussing with her bag, she didn’t see Mike at first. He was frozen, motor forgotten, lost in the woods of his own heartbeat. “When did you turn into such a beauty? Just yesterday you were a skinny kid…” She caught his stunned stare, stopped, and smiled—no longer a neighbour’s cheeky grin, but something gentle and shy. “Morning, Mike. Car trouble?” Her voice was velvet, not a hint of that old squeaky childhood tease. “J-Julie,” he managed. “Off to school?” “Yep,” she nodded, “Got lessons soon, better not be late.” Down the dusty lane she walked, light-footed, and in his mind—usually filled with timber and nails—a dazzling thought struck: “She’s the one I want to marry.” He never guessed that this morning was one of Julie’s happiest. Because finally, that reckless Mike, who never seemed to notice her, saw her—not through her, but truly, for the first time. “Could it be I’ve waited… I’ve liked him since I was thirteen, but I was always just the kid next door. I even cried when he went off to the army. The older girls were all over him, and I felt so left out. I came back to this village, teaching, just for him.” Her quiet, lifelong crush was finally rekindled with hope. She walked away, barely hiding her smile, feeling his gaze burn at her back. Stunned, Mike never made it to the woods that day. He paced around his cabin, chopped wood frantically, and the same thought kept turning: “How could I not notice? She’s always been here. Grew up right in front of me, while I chased after every other girl…” That evening by the well, he saw her return, tired with her schoolbag. “Julie,” he blurted, surprised at his own courage, “How’s work? The kids all cheeky and wild?” She smiled, leaning on the fence, eyes weary but bright. “Work’s work. Kids are always noisy, but they make my heart glad. I love the bustle; they’re inventive and fun… And your new house—it’s sturdy.” “Not finished yet,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter, anything half-built, you can finish,” she said gently, shy at her own wisdom. “Well, I’ll be off.” “Anything can be finished…” Mike repeated to himself—”not just houses.” From then, life gained new purpose. He wasn’t just building a home for himself—he knew now who he wanted under that roof. With her in mind—the woman he’d love, who’d fill his windows with geraniums instead of jars of nails, who’d share his porch. He took his time, afraid to scare away this quiet dream. Mike kept “accidentally” meeting her, first nodding silently, then asking about her classroom. “So, how are the kids?” He’d pass the school, see her surrounded by giggling children calling, “Goodbye, Miss Julie!” One day he brought her an entire basket of wild hazelnuts. Julie accepted his shy offerings with a warm, knowing smile. She saw how he’d changed, from reckless lad to solid man. And in her heart, the feeling well kept alive found new fire. Dark autumn clouds hung low over the village. One late autumn day, with the house nearly finished and storm clouds ahead, Mike couldn’t hold back any longer. Waiting for Julie by the gate, holding a bunch of the last crimson rowan berries. “Julie,” he said nervously, “I’ve almost finished the house. Only… it’s painfully empty. Would you…come round sometime, have a look? Actually—I want to offer you my hand, my heart. I know now how much you mean to me.” Julie saw the earnest, fearful look in his eyes, finding all she’d waited for. She took the berries from his rough hand, their redness burning. She pressed them to her chest. “You know, Mike,” she said, voice quiet, “I’ve been watching that house since the very first log you laid. Always wondered what it’d look like inside, waiting for you to invite me. I’ve dreamed of this. So…yes, I do.” For the first time in months of shy beauty, a mischievous spark flashed in her eyes—the same one he hadn’t noticed before, waiting all these years to ignite. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting. Wishing you all the best and happiness!

We Didn’t Let Our Daughter In: — But why didn’t you let her in? — Veronica finally voiced the question that had been haunting her. — You used to, always… Her mother gave a bitter smile. — Because I’m scared for you, Nicky. Do you think we don’t see how you cower in the corner when your sister barges in after midnight? How you hide your textbooks so she doesn’t ruin them? She looks at you and she’s angry. Angry because you’re normal. You’ve got another life ahead, and she’s already drowned hers in a bottle… Veronica shrank into her chair, frozen above her open textbooks — next door, the shouting had started again. Dad hadn’t even taken his coat off — he stood in the hallway, phone gripped tight, shouting. — Don’t try and spin me a story! — he roared. — What did you waste it all on? It’s only been two weeks since payday! Only two weeks, Larissa! From the kitchen, Tania peered out. She listened to her husband’s monologue for a minute, then asked, — Again? Valery just waved her away and put the phone on speaker — instantly, the sobbing came through. Veronica’s older sister was a natural at wringing pity — even from stone. But after years of torment, her parents had grown armour. — What do you mean “he threw you out”? — Valery started pacing the narrow hall. — He did right. Who’d put up with you being in that state all the time? Have you even looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You’re thirty and look like a battered dog. Veronica carefully cracked open her door just a little. — Dad, please… — the sobbing suddenly stopped. — He threw my things out into the stairwell. I’ve got nowhere to go. It’s raining out, it’s cold… Let me stay with you for a few days. Just to get some sleep. Mum lunged forward, wanting to grab the phone, but Valery turned away sharply. — No! — he cut in. — You’re not coming here. We agreed last time, remember? After you pawned the TV while we were away at the cottage, you’re barred from this house! — Mum! Mum, talk to him! — the phone shrieked. Tania buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. — Larissa, how could you… — she said flatly, not looking at her husband. — We took you to the doctors. You promised. They said the last treatment would last three years. You didn’t even make it a month! — Those treatments are rubbish! — Larissa snapped, her tone shifting from pitiful to vicious. — They just want your money! I feel awful, don’t you get it? Everything inside me’s on fire, I can’t breathe! And you’re on about the television… That’s what you care about! I’ll get you a new one! — And how would you pay for it? — Valery stared at the wall. — With what money? Blew it all again, didn’t you? Begged more off those mates of yours? Or nicked something from that boyfriend of yours? — Doesn’t matter! — Larissa shouted. — Dad, I have no place to go! You want me living under a bridge? — Try a shelter. Go where you like, — his voice was chillingly calm. — You’re not coming here. I’ll change the locks if I see you at our door. Veronica sat on her bed, hugging her knees. Usually, when her sister pushed her parents to breaking point, their anger ricocheted back at her. — Why are you just sitting there? On your phone again? You’ll turn out useless like your sister! — words she’d heard for three years. But today, they’d forgotten all about her. No one yelled, no one nagged. Dad cut the call, hung up his coat, and both her parents moved to the kitchen. Veronica crept carefully into the hall. — Val, you can’t, — her mother pleaded. — She’ll end up lost. You know what she’s like… when she’s like this. She can’t even control herself. — And do you expect me to control her? — Dad slammed the kettle down. — I’m fifty-five, Tanya. I just want to come home and sit in my chair. I’m tired of hiding my wallet under the pillow! I’m tired of neighbours complaining they saw her in the stairwell with unsavoury types, or that she mouthed off at them! — She’s our daughter, — mum whispered. — She was our daughter up to twenty. Now she’s just draining the life from us. She’s a hopeless drunk, Tanya. That can’t be cured unless she actually wants it. And she doesn’t. She likes living this way. Wake up, find a little bottle, polish it off and pass out! The phone rang again. The parents went quiet, then Dad answered. — Hello. — Dad… — Larissa again. — I’m sitting at the train station. Cops are walking around, they’ll pick me up if I stay. Please… — Listen carefully, — Dad cut her off. — You’re not coming home. That’s it. — So I should just top myself? — there was a challenge in Larissa’s voice. — Is that what you want? A call from the morgue? Veronica froze. This was Larissa’s classic. When nothing else worked, she’d play this card. It used to work. Mum would break down, Dad would clutch his chest, and soon there’d be money, food, or a place to stay. But today Dad was having none of it. — Don’t threaten, — he said. — You care too much about yourself for that. So. Here’s what we’ll do. — What? — there was hope in Larissa’s voice. — I’ll find you a room. Cheapest I can, on the edge of town. I’ll pay for the first month. And buy you some groceries. That’s all. After that—you’re on your own. Get work, sort yourself out, you’ll be fine. If not—you’re out on the street and I won’t give a damn. — A room? Not a flat? Dad, I can’t do it alone. I’m scared. And the neighbours could be awful. I haven’t even got bedding, that bastard kept everything! — Mum’ll pack some sheets. We’ll leave them with the warden for you. Don’t come up to the flat, I warned you. — You’re heartless! — Larissa screamed again. — Kicking your own daughter out! Into some dump! You’re in your big flat and I’m left to skulk like a rat? Mum couldn’t take it, grabbed the phone. — Enough, Larissa! — she yelled so loud Veronica jumped. — Your father’s right! This is your only chance. Room or street. Decide now, because tomorrow you won’t even get the room! There was silence. — Fine, — Larissa muttered at last. — Send me the address. And some money… my card, now. I’m starving. — No money, — Valery cut her off. — I’ll get the food and give it to you in a bag. I know what you’d spend cash on. He ended the call. Veronica figured now was the time. She went to the kitchen, acting like she wanted a drink. She braced herself for the usual blast of pent-up resentment. Dad would look at her t-shirt and tell her she looked scruffy. Mum would complain she didn’t care—the family had problems and she didn’t even notice. But neither parent even looked at her. — Veron, — mum called softly. — Yes, mum? — In the cupboard, top shelf, there are some old sheets and pillowcases. Pack them into that blue bag in the closet, okay? — Sure, Mum. Veronica set about her task. She wondered: how will Larissa manage? She can’t even cook pasta. And her habit… Veronica just knew her sister wouldn’t last two days sober. She came back into her parents’ room, climbed a stool, pulled out the linens. — Don’t forget towels! — Dad called from the kitchen. — Already packed them, — Veronica called back. She saw Dad go to the hallway, put on his boots and leave, saying nothing. Guess he’s off to find that “dump,” she thought. Veronica went into the kitchen. Mum was still sitting, unmoving. — Mum, want me to get your tablets? — Veronica asked quietly. Mum looked up. — You know, Nick… — she started in a hollow tone. — When she was little, I thought she’d be my helper when she grew up. We’d talk about everything, just us. But now I just sit here and hope… she doesn’t forget that address. Just—makes it there… — She’ll make it, — Veronica perched on the chair. — She always lands on her feet. — Not this time, — mum shook her head. — Her eyes are different now. Empty. Like there’s nothing left inside, just a shell that needs that poison to keep going. And I see how you’re afraid of her… Veronica was silent. She’d always thought her parents had never noticed her fear, too caught up saving “lost cause” Larissa. — I thought you didn’t care about me, — she whispered. Mum stroked her hair. — We do care. But we can’t go on. You know how, in planes, they say put your oxygen mask on first, then your child’s? We spent ten years putting her mask on. Ten years, Nicky! We tried clinics, churches, specialists. And we almost suffocated ourselves. The doorbell rang. Veronica flinched. — Is it her? — she asked, frightened. — No, Dad’s got the keys. Probably grocery delivery, he ordered some bits. Veronica opened the door. The delivery man handed over two heavy bags. She unpacked them on the kitchen table: pasta, tins, tea, oil, sugar. The basics. — She won’t eat this, — Veronica said, putting aside the packet of buckwheat. — She only eats ready meals. — If she wants to live, she’ll cook, — her mum snapped, old firmness in her voice. — We’ve spoiled her enough. Our pity’ll be the death of her. An hour later, Dad came back. He looked like he’d worked three back-to-back shifts. — Found it, — he announced. — Keys are here. Landlady’s strict, retired teacher. Told me straight: the first smell of drink or a single row, she’s out without a word. I told her, “Throw her out right away if you have to.” — Oh, Valery… — mum sighed. — What? No point lying. She deserves to know. Dad grabbed the bag and groceries, headed out. — I’ll leave them with the warden. I’ll text her the address. Veronica, lock up tight behind me. Don’t answer the phone if it rings. Dad left, and Mum went and cried, locked in the kitchen. Veronica’s heart ached. How can it be? She doesn’t live, just stumbles from drink to drink, and won’t let Mum and Dad live either… *** Their hopes were dashed — a week later, Valery got a call from the landlady: their daughter had been chucked out with the police after bringing three men to the flat for an all-nighter. Once again, the parents couldn’t abandon her — Larissa was sent to a rehab centre. A secure one, where they promised to cure even the worst. Maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope… ***(Adapted for an English cultural context and idioms, while retaining names, details, and specifics of the original.)***