The Elderly Gentleman Struggled from Bed and, Steadying Himself Against the Wall, Shuffled into the Next Room. In the Glow of the Night Lamp, He Peered with Dim Eyes at His Sleeping Wife: “She’s Not Moving! Has She Passed Away? – He Sank to His Knees. – Seems She’s Still Breathing.” He Stood, Shuffled into the Kitchen, Drank Some Kefir, Visited the Loo, Then Returned to His Room. He Lay Down, but Sleep Wouldn’t Come: “We’re Both Ninety—Lena and I. What a Long Life! We’ll Die Soon, and There’s No One Left Nearby. Our Daughter, Natasha, Passed Before She Hit Sixty. Maxim Died in Prison. There’s a Granddaughter, Oksana, but She’s Been Living in Germany for Over Twenty Years. She’s Forgotten Her Grandparents Completely. She Must Have Grown Children by Now.” He Didn’t Realise When He Drifted Off. He Woke to a Hand Touching His Face: “Are You Alive, Kostya?” Came a Barely Audible Voice. He Opened His Eyes. His Wife Was Bent Over Him. “What is it, Lena?” “I Saw You Weren’t Moving. I Got Frightened, Thought You’d Gone.” “Still Alive! Go Back to Bed!” There Were the Shuffling Footsteps, the Click of the Kitchen Light. Elena Ivanovna Drank Some Water, Went to the Loo, and Headed to Her Own Room. She Lay Down: “One Day I’ll Wake and He’ll Be Gone. What Will I Do? Or Maybe I’ll Go First. Kostya’s Already Arranged Our Funerals. Never Thought You Could Organise Your Own Send-Off. Then Again, Who Would Bury Us? Our Granddaughter’s Forgotten Us. Only Polina, the Neighbour, Pops In—She Has a Key. Grandpa Gives Her Ten Thousand from Our Pension Each Month. She Buys Our Groceries and Medicines. What Else Would We Spend Our Money On? We Can’t Even Get Down From the Fourth Floor by Ourselves Anymore.” Konstantin Leonidovich Opened His Eyes. The Sun Peeped Through the Window. He Stepped Out onto the Balcony and Saw the Green Cherry Tree Treetop. A Smile Broke Across His Face: “We’ve Made It to Another Summer!” He Went to See His Wife, Who Sat on Her Bed, Lost in Thought. “Lena, Stop Brooding! Come, I Want to Show You Something.” “Oh, I’ve Barely Any Strength Left!” Grumbled the Old Lady, Hauling Herself from Bed. “What Are You Planning Now?” “Come On, I’ll Help You!” Supporting Her by the Shoulders, He Led Her Out to the Balcony. “Look, the Cherry Tree’s Green! You Said We’d Never See Another Summer, and Here We Are!” “Oh, So True! The Sun’s Out Too.” They Sat Side by Side on the Balcony Bench. “Remember When I Took You to the Pictures for the First Time? Back in School. The Cherry Tree Had Just Budded that Day Too.” “How Could I Forget? How Many Years Ago That Was?” “Seventy-Plus… Seventy-Five.” For a Long Time, They Sat, Reminiscing. So Much Slips Away in Old Age, Sometimes Even What Happened Yesterday, but Youth Never Fades from Memory. “Oh, We’ve Chattered Away the Morning!” His Wife Shook Herself. “We’ve Not Had Breakfast Yet.” “Make Some Proper Tea, Lena! I’m Fed Up with All These Herbal Brews.” “We’re Not Supposed To.” “Just Make It Weak—Add a Spoonful of Sugar Each.” Konstantin Leonidovich Sipped His Diluted Tea, Eating a Little Cheese Sandwich, and Remembered When Breakfast Meant Strong, Sweet Tea with Pasties or Meat Pies. Their Neighbour, Polina, Popped In. She Smiled in Approval: “How Are You Both Doing?” “What Business Can Two Ninety-Year-Olds Have?” He Quipped. “If You’re Joking, All Is Well. Need Me to Pick Anything Up?” “Polina, Buy Us Some Meat!” Requested Konstantin Leonidovich. “You’re Not Supposed To, Are You?” “Chicken’s Allowed.” “Alright, I’ll Cook You Chicken Noodle Soup!” “Polina, Could You Pick Up Something For My Heart?” Asked His Wife. “Elena Ivanovna, I Only Got You Some Recently.” “I’ve Run Out.” “Shall I Call the Doctor?” “No Need.” Polina Cleared the Table, Washed Up, and Left. “Lena, Let’s Go Out on the Balcony,” Suggested Her Husband. “Let’s Soak Up Some Sun.” “Let’s Go! No Point Sitting in This Stuffy Flat.” Polina Returned, Stepped onto the Balcony: “Missing the Sunshine, Are You?” “It’s Lovely Here, Polina!” Elena Ivanovna Beamed. “I’ll Bring You Some Porridge and Then Start Soup for Lunch.” “She’s a Good Woman,” Said Konstantin as She Left. “Where Would We Be Without Her?” “And All We Give Her Is Ten Thousand a Month.” “Lena, The Flat’s Willed to Her—The Notary Confirmed It.” “She Doesn’t Know That.” They Stayed on the Balcony Until Lunch. The Chicken Soup Was Delicious, with Finely Cut Meat and Mashed Potatoes. “That’s How I Made Soup for Natasha and Maxim When They Were Small,” Elena Ivanovna Recalled. “And Now, In Our Old Age, Strangers Cook for Us.” Sighed Her Husband. “It’s Just Our Lot, Kostya. When We Die, Nobody Will Even Cry.” “Enough, Lena, Let’s Not Dwell. Let’s Have a Nap!” “Kostya, They Say: ‘Old Folk Are Like Little Ones.’ We Have Pureed Soup, Nap Time, an Afternoon Snack…” Konstantin Leonidovich Dozed but Soon Woke; He Couldn’t Sleep—Maybe It Was the Weather? He Stepped Into the Kitchen. On the Table, He Found Two Glasses of Juice, Thoughtfully Set Out by Polina. He Picked Them Up and Headed Carefully to His Wife’s Room. She Was Sitting on the Bed, Staring Out the Window. “Why So Glum, Lena?” He Smiled. “Here, Have Some Juice.” She Took a Sip: “You Can’t Sleep Either?” “The Weather—My Blood Pressure’s Up.” “I’ve Felt Off All Day,” Elena Ivanovna Shook Her Head Sadly. “I Don’t Think I’ve Much Time Left. Give Me a Proper Send-Off.” “Don’t Be Silly, Lena. What Would I Do Without You?” “One of Us Will Go First, Either Way.” “That’s Enough! Let’s Go to the Balcony!” They Stayed There Until Evening. Polina Made Syrniki for Supper. They Ate and Watched the Telly as Usual, Only Old British Comedies and Cartoons These Days—Anything New Was Hard to Follow. Tonight, They Managed Just One Cartoon. Elena Ivanovna Got Up: “I’m Off to Bed—So Tired Tonight.” “Then I’ll Join You.” “Let Me Have a Good Look at You First!” She Suddenly Asked. “Why?” “Just Because.” They Looked at Each Other for a Long Time—Perhaps Remembering Their Youth, When Everything Was Still Ahead. “I’ll Walk You to Your Bed,” She Said, Taking His Arm, and Slowly Led Him Off. He Tucked Her In, Went to His Own Room, But His Heart Was Heavier than Ever. He Thought He Didn’t Sleep, but the Digital Clock Read Two in the Morning. He Rose and Went to His Wife’s Room. She Was Staring at the Ceiling, Eyes Wide Open. “Lena!” He Took Her Hand. It Was Cold. “Lena, What’s Happened? Le-e-na!” Suddenly, He Himself Struggled for Breath. He Barely Made It to His Room, Put Their Prepared Documents on the Desk, Then Returned to His Wife. He Gazed at Her Face for a Long Time, Lay Down Beside Her, and Closed His Eyes. He Saw Lena, Young and Beautiful as Seventy-Five Years Ago, Walking Towards a Distant, Shining Light. He Rushed After, Caught Up, Took Her Hand… In the Morning, Polina Entered Their Bedroom. They Lay Side by Side, Identical, Contented Smiles on Their Faces. When She Came to Her Senses, She Rang for an Ambulance. The Doctor Examined Them and Shook His Head in Amazement: “They Passed On Together. Must Have Loved Each Other Deeply.” They Were Taken Away. Polina Sank, Exhausted, onto a Chair by the Table—and Then Spotted the Burial Agreement and… a Will in Her Name. She Buried Her Head in Her Hands and Burst Into Tears.

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 2

The old man heaved himself out of bed, steadying himself against the wall as he shuffled into the next room. In the haze of the night lamp, his failing eyes squinted at his wife, lying there so terribly still.
Not moving. Has she gone already? He dropped to his knees. No seems shes breathing.
He pulled himself up and drifted slowly to the kitchen. He drank a glass of milk, visited the toilet, then wandered to his room.
He lay on his bed but sleep wouldnt come.
Were ninety, both of us now. How many years have we lived? It wont be long before were gone, and theres no one here. Our daughter, Alice, died before she turned sixty. Michael passed away in prison. Theres our granddaughter, Sophie, but shes off in Scotland, hasnt visited in over twenty years. Probably has children of her own by now. Forgotten her gran and granddad.
He didnt remember falling asleep.
He woke to a gentle touch.
Arthur, are you there? came a voice, thin as air.
He opened his eyes. His wife leaned over him.
Is that you, Edith?
Saw you werent moving. Got frightened, thought youd gone.
Still breathing! Go on, get back to bed.
He heard her shuffling steps, the click of a switch on in the kitchen.
Edith poured herself a glass of water, made her way to the loo and then to her room. She lay down, mind spinning:
One day Ill wake, and hell be dead beside me. Or maybe Ill go first. Arthurs already arranged for our funerals. Imagine that, planning your own send-off. In a way its sensible. Whod bury us now? Sophies long forgotten us. Only the neighbour, Pauline, pops in. Shes got a key. Arthur gives her a hundred quid a month from our pension. She brings groceries and medicine. What else would we use money for? We cant even manage the stairs anymore, not from the fourth floor.
Arthur blinked at the morning sun peeking through the window. He went out onto the tiny balcony and spied the topmost bough of a hawthorn tree, brilliant and green. A long-forgotten smile stretched across his face.
We made it to summer!
He checked on Edith; she was sitting on her bed, thoughtful.
Edith, stop moping! Come, let me show you something.
Oh, dont have the strengthwhats on your mind now?
Just come, come on.
He supported her frail shoulders till they made it to the balcony.
See, the hawthorns gone all green! You said we wouldnt see another summer. But look at that!
Goodness, it has! And the suns out.
They perched side by side on the bench out there.
Remember how I took you to the pictures? When we were still in school. The hawthorn was blossoming that evening, too.
Who could forget a thing like that? How many years since then?
Seventy-five and a bit.
They sat a long time, nibbling on memories. Old age erases so muchsometimes yesterday escapes youbut youth never seems to fade.
Oh, were nattering away! Edith shook herself. Not had breakfast, have we?
Brew us some proper tea, would you, Edith? Im sick of this herbal stuff.
But its not good for us.
The barest, just a hint, and a spoonful of sugar each.
Arthur sipped his weak tea, chasing a sliver of cheese on a bit of bread, thinking on mornings gone: strong, sweet tea with jam tarts or fried dough.
Pauline popped her head in, smiling.
How are you both today?
How do you think, at ninety? Arthur joked.
If youre cracking jokes, things cant be too bad! What do you need from the shops?
Pauline, grab us some meat! Arthur asked.
Should you really?
A bit of chickens not lethal.
Alright, Ill make you some noodle soup.
Pauline, something for the old ticker, please Edith reminded.
Edith, I just bought you some last week.
All gone.
Maybe get the doctor in?
No need.
Pauline tidied up and vanished.
Edith, lets sit on the balcony, said Arthur. Get some sun.
Yes, lets. No sense sitting in this stuffiness.
Pauline returned, peeking round the balcony door,
You two missing the sunshine then?
Oh, its lovely here, Pauline! Edith beamed.
Right, Ill bring you your porridge out, and get that soup going for lunch.
Good woman, Arthur watched her go. What would we do without her?
And you only give her a hundred a month.
Edith, we left her the flat. Got that in writing at the solicitors, remember.
She hasnt a clue.
They sat in that patch of sunlight until lunch, when Pauline appeared with fragrant chicken soup, full of tiny chopped meat and squashed potato.
I always made it like this for Alice and Michael when they were little, Edith recalled.
Now its strangers who cook for us, Arthur sighed.
Must be our fate, Arthur. Well go, and no one will shed a tear.
Thats enough, Edith. Lets nap awhile!
They say, Old age is second childhood, and were proof: mashed soup, afternoon naps, snack at four.
Arthur dozed, but it was uneasy. Maybe the weather was turning. He slipped to the kitchen: two glasses of juice on the table, set out by Pauline with her usual care.
He took both, steadying himself, and brought them to Edith, who sat gazing out.
Whats got you down, Edith? Here, have a bit of juice.
She took a sip.
You couldnt sleep either?
Blame the weather. Blood pressures jumping.
Ive felt off since morning, Edith muttered as if resigned, Feels like Im almost done here. Remember to put me to rest properly, Arthur.
Dont talk nonsense, Edith. How am I to live without you?
One of usll have to go first, anyway.
Enough, lets get some more air.
They lingered out there till evening. Pauline brought cheese scones, which they ate watching TV. Every night they watched TV, never really following the newer shows. So they stuck to British comedies and old childrens cartoons.
That night, just one cartoon. Edith rose, exhausted.
Ill go to bed.
Ill come too.
Let me look at you a bit, Arthur, she asked suddenly.
What for?
Just let me.
They stared at each other a long time, remembering a future that once seemed endless.
Ill walk you to your bed.
Edith took her husbands arm, and together they moved along, ever so slowly. Arthur gently tucked her in, then returned to his own room, heart heavy as stone. He failed to sleep, or perhaps wasnt asleep at all. The digital clock blinked 2:00am. He stood, made his way to Ediths room.
She was lying there, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
Edith!
He took her hand. It was cold.
Edith, please! Ediiith!
And then, his own breath caught, short and sharp. He stumbled to his desk, put the folder of papers in plain sight, and returned to his wife. He watched her face for a long time. Then lay down beside her, shutting his eyes.
Suddenly, he saw Edith, young and lovely again, walking into the light, far, far ahead. He ran after her, caught up, and took her hand
In the morning, Pauline let herself in. They were side by side, identical smiles etched on their faces. When she came to herself, Pauline rang for the ambulance.
The doctor came, shaking his head in disbelief:
Went together. They mustve truly loved each other.
They were taken away. Pauline slumped at the table and there she saw their funeral instructionsand the deed, left to her.
Her head dropped into her arms and tears followedquiet, bewildered, real.

JUST IN CASE Vera glanced at her tearful colleague, turned indifferently back to her computer, and began typing rapidly. “You’re heartless, Vera,” came the voice of Olga, their manager. “Me? What makes you say that?” “Well, just because your personal life is all sunshine and rainbows doesn’t mean it’s the same for everyone else. You see the poor girl’s beside herself—you could at least show a bit of sympathy, offer some advice, maybe share your experience. Things are going so well for you, after all.” “Me? Share my experience? With her? I doubt our dear Nadia would appreciate that. I did try, you know—about five years ago, when she started showing up to work with black eyes ‘to help her see the road in the morning,’ as she claimed. You weren’t here yet back then. And no, it wasn’t her boyfriend beating her up—she just had a knack for ‘falling over’ at just the right angle. Funny thing, once he rode off into the sunset, the bruises vanished, and he was the third guy to do so. That’s when I decided to try supporting her, to offer a bit of wisdom, as it were. And guess what? I was the villain in the story. Later, my other colleagues clued me in—supporting Nadia is a lost cause. She always ‘knows best’ and hates anyone who meddles in her happiness. She used to run to fortune-tellers, casting love spells; now she’s moved with the times and goes to therapists to ‘work through her trauma.’ She doesn’t realize she’s living the same story over and over—only the names change. So please forgive me, but I won’t be weeping or passing out tissues.” “Still, Vera,” Olga said, “that’s not right.” At lunch, as everyone sat around the same table, all anyone could talk about was Nadia’s ex—the rogue, the cheater. Vera quietly ate her lunch, poured herself a coffee, and retreated to a corner, scrolling through her socials to clear her mind. “Vera,” cheerful, plump Tanya sidled up, her usually bubbly face looking glum today, “don’t you feel even a little bit sorry for Nadia?” “Tanya, what do you want from me?” “Oh, leave her be,” said passing Irina, “Vera’s got her dear Vasily, lives like a queen—she wouldn’t know what it’s like to be left alone with a child, to have no help from anywhere, to fight tooth and nail just to get child support from some deadbeat dad.” “Well, she shouldn’t have had a kid with God-knows-who at her age, pardon me girls,” chimed in Tatiana Ivanovna, the eldest at the office, known as Granny Tanya. “Vera’s right, Nadia’s cried over that guy for ages, he made her life hell even when she was pregnant.” The women all circled the ceaselessly sobbing Nadia, offering every kind of advice under the sun. So, our strong, independent Nadia decided to turn things around. She summoned her mother from the village to help with her son—and her ‘thankless’ ex. Nadia began to heal: she grew bangs, microbladed her eyebrows, glued on lashes, nearly got a nose ring but was talked out of it by the whole department. And suddenly, she was back. “It’s alright, Nadia,” her colleagues cheered, “he’ll regret it, he’ll cry soon enough!” “He won’t cry at all,” Vera muttered, hardly above a whisper, but the tipsy girls heard her. “What do you mean, he won’t cry?” “He just won’t. And he won’t have any regrets. As for Nadia, she’ll find another just like him before long.” “That’s easy for you to say, your Vasily is probably nothing like that…” “Nothing like that. Vasily is the best man in the world—doesn’t cheat, drink, or raise a hand, adores me to bits.” “Yeah, right. All men are dogs.” “Careful, Vera, or we’ll steal him.” “No chance, he wouldn’t go anywhere.” “I wouldn’t be so sure.” “You should be.” Wine-fueled, the girls soon argued as fiercely as wildcats. “Let’s go round to yours and see if Vasily can resist all this beauty! Bet you wouldn’t dare invite us—you’re scared one of us will steal your precious.” “Alright, let’s go.” “Alright, girls, let’s go to Vera’s and see if we can win Vasily over! Granny Tanya, you coming?” “No, I’ve got Mikhail waiting for me at home… You go ahead,” grinned Tatiana Ivanovna. Off they trooped to Vera’s, laughter filling the kitchen as they bustled about. “Let’s whip up something quickly for Vasily. He’s out now, right?” “He’s picky with food and won’t eat much—but yes, you’re right, he’ll be home soon.” The bravado faded, everyone remembered their chores and left, except Nadia, Olga, and Tanya, who stayed for tea and girl chat, feeling awkward while waiting for the mysterious Vasily. At last, someone arrived. “Vasily, my darling boy!” crooned Vera as she went to the hall. The women fell silent, shuffling awkwardly, when in strode a tall, handsome young man. Ah, so that’s it—they all realized at once. Vera’s man was much, much younger. “Ladies, meet my son, Denis. How’s Vasily, Den?” “He’s fine, Mum—just needs some rest after the op. He’ll be running around tomorrow. Don’t let him lick his…” The women blushed. “We… we’ll be off then?” “Wait, you haven’t met Vasily yet—shh, he’s just had surgery. Denis and Lena took him while I was at work… for his, um, snip, since he kept spraying the curtains. Come on in.” Here he is—my Vasily, fast asleep. The ladies nearly burst out laughing—it was a cat. “Vera—it’s a cat!” “Of course it’s a cat—what did you think?” “But… your husband?” “Oh, I’ve not got one. You all leapt to conclusions when I once said I had a wonderful man in my life called Vasily—you made up the rest all by yourselves. I got married young, first love, all that—dropped out of college, had Denis. Three rough years, and we split. Parents helped out as much as they could. Married again closer to thirty—a nice, stable man, made big plans. Wanted an heir, a princess… as for Denis, oh, send him off to military school or dump him on my mum. Sent that husband back to his mother soon enough. She blamed me for being a fool, said, ‘No one wants someone else’s child’—pretty rich coming from a woman whose husband wasn’t Denis’ father, either. Back to just Denis and me. Third time, I knew the odds were against me. ‘Third time lucky,’ as they say. But early on, this one blackened my eye—all in the name of passionate love, apparently. Luckily, Denis took up martial arts at six and I often sparred with him; I learned a few things. Gave that Othello a taste of his own medicine, and that was that. Denis got married, I got bored—so I got myself Vasily the cat. It’s great: I have company for the cinema, for holidays, and no one owes anyone anything, no one nags or demands. Sometimes I cook a nice dinner and invite Denis—he leaves happy, and there’s no drama. Denis used to ask why we didn’t live together. I told him: we’re adults, with our own lives and habits. If we’d been together since youth, like my brother or my parents—maybe. They’ve fused into one after thirty years. I didn’t, so why should I force myself, just to say ‘I’m married’? No, thanks. Vasily and I do just fine. Right, darling, open your eyes—like I warned you, keep on yowling and spraying, and you’ll lose more than dignity.” The girls left deep in thought, especially Nadia. But Nadia couldn’t do it Vera’s way. Within a month, she was gushing about her new beau, accepting bouquets at work. Vera and Granny Tanya quietly smiled. “How’s Mikhail? How’s his leg?” “All healed, Vera, thank goodness—a splinter, most likely, but he’s back to normal. My grandkids said we should show him at dog shows, but why torture him? We’re happy as we are… Looks like things have worked out with Nadia, too.” “Yes, Tatiana Ivanovna—some get a pet, some get a husband…” “Well, everyone to their own.” “Maybe she’ll have better luck this time?” “Let’s hope so.” “What’s all the whispering?” “About you, Nadia—we’re hoping for the best.” “Girls, I know how it looks, but I just can’t be alone, honestly.” “That’s your business—stop making excuses. Everyone has their own life…” “Vera,” Nadia called, catching up to her at the parking lot, “if I need tips on looking after cats, will you help? Which is better, a tom or a queen?” “Go on, they’re waiting for you… We’ll see about that if the time comes…” Vera laughed. “I just want to know—just in case.”

Leonard Refused to Believe Little Iris Was His Daughter—Her Mother Vera Was Always at Work, with Gossip Whispering About Backroom Affairs—So He Resented the Child, Leaving Only Grandpa Matthew to Love and Care for His Granddaughter, Ultimately Leaving His Countryside Cottage to Iris in His Will Only Grandpa Matthew Loved Little Iris As a child, Iris was often ill—delicate, small, unlike anyone in Leonard’s or Vera’s families. “She’s a runt, nothing like us,” Leonard grumbled, fueling his doubts and growing coldness, which soon crept into Vera too. Iris’s only champion was Grandpa Matthew, whose cottage stood on the edge of the village by the woods. A retired forest ranger, he was seen as eccentric, even clairvoyant, and villagers visited for his healing herbs and brews. Widowed long ago, he found solace in the woods and in Iris, who spent more time with him than at home, learning about the land and dreaming of healing people. Her mother dismissed her ambitions, but Grandpa always promised to help, even if it meant selling his cow. He Left His Cottage and a Blessing Vera rarely visited her father—until her son, Andrew, lost badly at cards in town and thugs demanded money. She came begging, but Grandpa Matthew, unmoved, refused: “I won’t pay Andrew’s debts. My priority is Iris’s education.” Furious, Vera stormed out, disowning both her father and her daughter. When Iris got into nursing school, only Grandpa helped her, the rest turning a blind eye. Shortly before her graduation, Grandpa fell ill and, sensing his end, told Iris he was leaving her the house—and a wish for a happy destiny. “Don’t forget this house. Its spirit will protect you. Don’t be afraid to stay, for here, your fate will find you,” he prophesied. Matthew’s Prediction Came True After Matthew’s passing in autumn, Iris worked as a nurse in the district hospital, returning to the cottage on weekends, keeping the hearth burning as he’d asked. One snowy evening, a blizzard stranded a stranger outside—Stan. Iris offered him a shovel and, eventually, hot tea inside until the storm passed. Amused by her independence, Stan offered to see her safely to town—and soon, their paths crossed again. They never had a wedding—just genuine love. Stan tried to persuade her at first but honored her wishes. Their bond ran deep, and when their son was born, the staff marveled how such a tiny woman gave birth to such a strapping lad. Asked what they would name him, Iris always said: “He’ll be Matthew, after a truly wonderful man.”

Life, Like the Moon: Sometimes Full, Sometimes Waning I believed our marriage was as eternal and unbreakable as the universe—how wrong I was… I met my future husband, David, at medical school; we married in our fifth year. My mother-in-law’s wedding gifts were a trip to the Lake District and keys to a new flat. Life seemed perfect. We moved into a three-bedroom flat, with his parents helping us at every turn. Each year, thanks to their generosity, we holidayed all over Europe. We were young and blissful, with our whole future ahead—David became a virologist, I a GP, and our sons, Daniel and Victor, completed our happiness. But looking back, I realise my life then was a river in full flow—I lived in luxury for a decade. And then, it all collapsed overnight. …The doorbell rang. I opened it to a pretty but troubled-looking young woman. ‘Are you Sophia? I’m here to see you—may I come in?’ she asked, hesitantly. She was slightly pregnant. ‘My name’s Tanya. I’m ashamed to say this, but I love your husband. David loves me, too. We’re having a baby,’ she blurted. She handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a gold ring. ‘Is this some kind of bribe? David isn’t for sale!’ I snapped, returning the ring. Tanya began to cry, pleading for understanding, but I felt only sorrow for myself. This woman had stolen my happiness. I pushed the ‘compensation’ back to her, ushered her out, and from that moment, my life began to unravel… My mother-in-law called: David was leaving. She packed his things, gently telling me, ‘We’ll always be family, no matter what. David and his new girl, well—let them get on with it.’ Within months, David had a new family, including Tanya’s daughter from her first marriage. He never visited our sons, sent only minimal support via his mother; it was the ‘90s. I ended up hospitalised with a breakdown. The boys stayed with their grandmother, spoilt and cared for. When I tried to bring them home after my recovery, they refused—her cooking and lenience were too tempting. What could I say? ‘Let them stay with us,’ my mother-in-law coaxed. ‘You’ll need to downsize the flat, anyway.’ So, I was left alone, soon forced to trade our spacious home for a tiny, shabby bedsit—a far cry from before. I saw my sons only on holidays. ‘Let’s not upset the boys’ contentment,’ my mother-in-law would say. They drifted from me; the connection broke. I longed to disappear into my cold, lonely corner. My gran used to say, ‘Life is like the moon: sometimes full, sometimes waning.’ It couldn’t go on like that. Even my first-class medical degree felt meaningless. …Work sent me to a conference in France, where I had a whirlwind romance with a Serbian doctor, Ivan. For ten days, I came back to life. There were other brief liaisons after, but nothing lasting. Once, my mother-in-law remarked, ‘Sophia, you’re glowing! You look like spring itself!’ Yet I remained alone. When my best friend emigrated to Greece, she introduced me to her ex. ‘Sophia, you take Alexander! He’s all yours now!’ she joked. So, I picked up the pieces of a man left behind. Alexander became my husband, but he had a major flaw: he was a hopeless alcoholic. I couldn’t leave him, no matter the heartbreak, and spent seven years fighting for him—rehab, doctors, tears. At last, he sobered up and now works as a driver at the local mortuary—sobering work, but he comes home quiet and, more importantly, sober. My friend from Greece can scarcely believe it: ‘Alexander isn’t drinking? I don’t believe it!’ I just laugh: ‘No refunds or exchanges!’ My sons are in their thirties now, both bachelors after witnessing so much marital upheaval as boys. I doubt I’ll have grandchildren. As for my ex-husband, David—his second wife, Tanya, drank herself into oblivion, and their daughter is now a single mum. David remarried again, this time to his nurse. Just before the wedding, he even asked our sons, ‘Would your mum want to start over with me?’ I answered sharply, ‘When pigs fly! In other words—never!’

— After I’m Gone, You’ll Have to Move Out—The Flat Will Go to My Son… — I’m sorry, Gail, but after I’m gone, you’ll have to vacate this flat, — said her husband Tony. — I’m leaving it to my son. I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. I hope you’re not upset with me about this? You’ve got your own children—they’ll look after you. Life had never been kind to Gail. Raised in an orphanage, she never knew her parents. She married young for love but found little happiness. Thirty-five years ago, she was left a widow with two small children when her husband, Nick, tragically died. Gail spent five years alone, working hard to give her son and daughter a good life, until Tony came into her world. At least she had her own roof—Nick’s flat had come to her as an inheritance. Gail’s new love, Tony, was thirteen years her senior, owned his spacious three-bedroom flat, and earned well. They quickly decided to move in together, and Tony got on splendidly with the children of the woman he loved. Gail’s eldest, Vicky, was wary of her stepdad at first, but Tony soon won her trust. Gail’s son, Ben, all but instantly called Tony “Dad.” Tony raised them as his own—never stingy with money, time, or affection—and Vicky and Ben were forever grateful for a joyful childhood. *** Both Vicky and Ben had long moved out. Vicky married early and left the nest, while Ben, who dreamed of a career in the Army, hadn’t lived at home in years. Ten years ago, Gail asked her children over to discuss an important matter. “I want to sell our two-bed flat,” she told them over tea. “We need major renovations here: furniture’s outdated, pipes need changing. No one lives in that old place anyway—it’s just sitting empty. If you’re both happy, I say we sell it and split the money.” Vicky shrugged. “That’s fine with me—I don’t need the flat, but to be honest, Mum, I could use the cash. You know how expensive it is treating my son, and we’re still hoping to help him fully recover.” Vicky’s eldest had a birth defect affecting his legs, so money was tight—constant rehab, trips to London, and private treatment sucked up every penny. Ben nodded in agreement. “Me neither, Mum. Give my share to Vicky for little Greg’s treatment. I’ve got my flat and still working on the mortgage. My nephew’s health matters more.” So the flat was sold. Gail gave half the proceeds to Vicky, and with what was left, she completely renovated Tony’s place—new wiring, new pipes, all new furniture and appliances, paid for out of her own pocket. Never could she have imagined her generosity would turn out to be for nothing, or that after thirty years together, Tony would betray her so cruelly. Tony’s health took a turn for the worse four years ago. He complained constantly of knee pain—some days, he couldn’t get out of bed unaided. Gail pleaded: “Tony, stop acting like a child and go to the doctor. Get some proper treatment—I’ll go with you if you want!” Tony grumbled in reply, “Doctors will just prescribe a load of expensive rubbish that won’t work. My knees have ached since I was young… Just worse now I’m nearly seventy.” Vicky had always called Tony “Dad” like Ben did, so she was determined to help. Together, the women made Tony go to the GP, and after a thorough check, the doctor was blunt: “It’s serious. You need urgent treatment. And you really must lose some weight before it gets worse.” Gail took this to heart—she overhauled Tony’s diet, swapped sweets for dried fruit, and cooked only healthy, low-calorie meals. Tony wasn’t having it. “I’m not living like a rabbit! I’ll drop dead starving before my knees ever get better!” But Gail stood firm, and eventually Tony agreed to treatment and dieting. Medicines barely helped, pain came and went, and soon Tony could barely move about the flat. Gail led him everywhere by the hand, and heart and blood pressure troubles soon arrived. He seemed to visibly age before their eyes, and Vicky and Ben took to spending as much time with him as possible. *** For several years, Tony battled on, but the ups and downs wore him out. Gail never once thought of leaving him, always nursing him over each crisis. Six months ago, Tony had a bad turn and ended up in hospital. Gail rarely left his bedside. One evening, as she was packing food for a visit, the doorbell rang. At the door stood a young man unfamiliar to her, yet oddly familiar at the same time. “Evening. Is Tony Evans in?” “I’m afraid he’s not home. Sorry, but who are you?” “I’m Serge. Tony Evans is my dad.” Gail was stunned—the resemblance to her husband as a young man was uncanny! She invited Serge in, feeling awkward and unprepared for the sudden revelation. Over tea, she learned her husband had never mentioned Serge, or that he’d been married before. When they finally visited Tony together, even her husband needed a moment to recognise his son. Later, Tony told Gail how he’d left Serge’s mum after catching her with a cousin, and how he’d been barred from Serge’s life—until, nearly thirty years on, Serge had tracked him down. “Serge is my son, my blood,” Gail said gently. “You can’t blame the child for the way his mother acted—give him a chance to know you.” Tony took her advice and began seeing Serge regularly, who soon met both Ben and Vicky—who welcomed their stepbrother warmly. Gail was happy for Tony, but unnoticed, their bank account was running low. Gail, still working as a remote accountant, checked her phone out of habit one day and was shocked to see a £1,500 withdrawal. She hurried to Tony. “Where’s our bank card? Someone’s emptied our account—was it you?” “Oh, don’t worry,” Tony replied calmly. “I gave Serge the card. He needed the money, so I helped him out.” “Why didn’t you tell me? Why give him so much, without even asking?!” “It’s none of your business,” Tony snapped. “He’s my son, he needed help. What’s your problem?” Rows followed, but Gail called the bank and cancelled the card. That night, Serge arrived, indignant: “The card’s blocked, Dad! We agreed I could use it.” Gail laid down the law: “That money’s mine—I paid for it every month. From now on, you get nothing without asking me.” After that, Serge stopped visiting, and Tony rarely spoke to Gail, giving her the silent treatment until, finally, she decided to spend some time away at her daughter’s house, “Let Tony think things over—a bit of space will do us good.” She returned home that night to find Tony in a cheerful mood, but then he looked at her seriously: “I hope you won’t be cross, but I went to the solicitor today—the flat’s now Serge’s.” “Really?” said Gail, quietly. “For what, exactly?” “He’s my son—my only flesh and blood. You’d better start sorting out where you’ll go next: your daughter’s or your son’s place?” A heaviness settled over Gail. Legally, perhaps, she had no rights to the flat, but it hurt. Every bit of furniture, every curtain, every pound she’d spent making that place a home—none of it mattered now. “Well, thank you, Tony,” she said softly. “Maybe you’re right. I need to look after myself now. Call your son—he can move in and look after you from now on.” “What’s going on, Gail? Where are you going? Explain yourself!” “There’s nothing to explain, Tony. I’m leaving you. I’ll call the children and make plans for my future.” Gail moved in with Ben, who had plenty of room. Vicky would have taken her too, but Gail didn’t want to impose. Tony tried to contest the divorce, but in the end, Gail was free—though she was left, in Tony and Serge’s eyes, as a gold-digger after someone else’s home.