The Recipe for Happiness… The Whole Block Watched as New Neighbours Moved into the Second-Floor Flat: The Family of a Workshop Supervisor at the Town’s Main Factory Arrives in Our Little English Village, Sparking Chatter Amongst the Residents About Why Such Important People Would Choose an Old Georgian Building Over Modern New Builds—From Posh Retired Ladies Comparing High Ceilings and Spacious Rooms, to Anxious Daughters Eyeing Friendship and More Behind Every Reception Room Door, All While the Telephone—One of Only Three in a Nine-Flat House—Becomes the Unlikely Battleground for Baking Tips, Social Acceptance, and the Sweet Secret Behind Life’s True Contentment

Author Emily TaylorReading 10 minViews 1

The Recipe for Happiness…

The whole block watched curiously as the new neighbours moved into the second-floor flat. They were the family of the workshop manager at the main factory, quite an influential workplace in our small provincial town.

I dont see why theyd want to live in these old Victorian flats, do you? remarked Mrs Nora Green, a retired lady, to her friends. With his connections, they could have landed a brand new place, surely.

Well, dont judge by your own standards, Mum, replied her daughter, thirty-year-old single Emily, her face done up with bold makeup. Why would they want a new-build when these redbricks have high ceilings, lovely big rooms, and the hallway’s practically a ballroom? That balconys almost another room itself. Besides, they got the phone line installed straight off. There are only three phones in the entire building, nine flats in total

You just want to natter on the phone all the time, scolded her mother. The neighbours have had enough of that already. Dont you go pestering the new lottheyre serious people, busy folk.

They cant be that serioustheyre young. The little girls only nine, named Molly, Emily answered with a wounded look. Theyre about my age, perhaps five years older at most.

The new folks were polite and always smiling. Linda worked in the school library, and John had been at the plant for over a decade.

Emily knew all this and gossiped with the neighbours every evening in the shared back garden, where her mother liked to sit.

How do you know it all already? the other women teased her. Youre a real little detective, arent you?

I pop over to use their phone. Not everyone makes such a fuss, unlike certain others, Emily said, pointedly, remembering when neighbours ignored her knocks, certain shed be on the line with her friends for ages.

This was how Emily grew acquainted with the newcomers, and she made regular calls from their flatto friends, sometimes colleagues, thinking nothing of it if she stayed chatting for ages. Emily would show up either in a smart dress or in her cosiest dressing gown, clearly hoping to make friends with the family.

Once, she saw John pointedly close the living room door to watch TV as soon as she arrived to use the phone. It happened again and again. Emily would always smile at Linda and thank her, glancing into the kitchen after her call, but Linda only nodded, asking Emily very politely to pull the door shut behind her.

I cant close it, my hands are covered in flour, Linda would explain, and the lock is one of those self-clicking French ones.

Oh, what are you making now? More scones? Youre always baking, arent you? Emily would chime in. I could never get the hang of it.

Well, these are cheese pastries for breakfast. No time to bake in the mornings, so I get it done now, Linda would say, turning away to her dough.

Emily would wrinkle her nose and leave, grumbling that they werent actually interested in her company after all.

Look, Linda, I get that its awkward to say anything, John said to his wife one evening, but our phone is constantly tied up in the evenings with her, and my mates cant get through. You cant let it go on.

Yes, Ive noticed she strolls in almost as if she lives here, chattering away as she pleases, Linda agreed.

That same evening, Emily, all dressed up and brightly made up, again perched herself on their hallway stool, cheerfully chatting with her friend.

How much longer will you be, Emily? Were waiting for an important call, Linda asked after ten minutes.

Emily nodded understandingly and ended the call. Then she pulled a chocolate bar from her bag and said brightly, Ive brought something sweet today! Why dont we have a cuppato celebrate getting acquainted?

She placed the chocolate on the kitchen table.

Sorry, youd best take that home, Linda said. If Molly sees it, shell want one, but shes not allowed chocolate. It aggravates her eczema. So, Im afraid no tea and chocolate. Please dont take offence; in our home, chocolate is strictly off the table.

Oh, really? Emily flushed. Well, I only wanted to say thank you. Meant it kindly.

No need to thank us, but please, do not come as often for calls. Unless its something urgenta doctor, an ambulance, or the fire brigadeof course, absolutely, any time, night or day. But otherwise, please understand. John gets work calls, and Molly is distractedshes doing her homework right now. We try to keep the flat as quiet as possible, Linda said, wringing her hands.

Emily slipped the chocolate bar back into her bag and left without another word. She simply couldnt fathom why they treated her that way and decided that Linda must be jealous.

Shes jealous, obviouslyIm younger and prettier, and she can see it, Emily told her mum indignantly. I just wanted to be friendly, and she wouldnt even give me teaand I had my own chocolate.

Foolish and stubborn, Nora replied. Maybe I raised you wrongbut you shouldnt push your way into someone elses family. They dont need your phone calls. Their place is not a revolving door. Thats why they gave you the boot. Now youre sulking and, on top of that, inventing jealousy. Find yourself a husband, live your own life, get your own phone and invite people around for a change.

Emily made one last effort to befriend Linda, turning up with a notebook to copy down her recipe for those pastries.

Ive a favour to askcould you give me your recipe for those cheese scones? I really must learn for myself at last,” Emily said. “Ill write it down and go and try right away.

Why not just ask your own mother? Our mums know all these things, Linda replied, pleasantly surprised. Anyway, I cant really helpI always bake by eye, never wrote anything down! My hands just know what to do, Linda smiled, hurrying away. And I really must dash nowso do ask your mum!

Emily flushed again and trudged home. Of course, she remembered her mother had an old, well-worn recipe notebook buried in a kitchen cupboard. The pages were filled with neat, looping handwritingsalads, cutlets, soups, even jellied fish. Most of all, there were countless recipes for all the cakes and pastries her mother used to bake, back when she cared less about her waistline and blood pressure.

Emily reluctantly took out the notebook, idly flipping through until she found just what she was after, surprising her mother in the process.

Well, would you look at thatyou fancy baking something? Nora was astonished.

Why so surprised? Emily snapped the notebook shut, marking the page she wanted.

Things getting serious with David then? her mother asked slyly. I thought it was over, like the rest of your short-lived romances.

Over? Hardly. I dare say hell start chasing me again if I want him to, Emily said, perturbed.

So make it happen, then. You ought to be settling down. What did you find in that old notebook? Need any help? her mum joked.

No, thank you. Im preparing myself, emotionally, came the sharp reply.

Yet two days later, when Nora returned from her evening walk, the house was filled with the warm, sweet scent of baking.

Whats this? Cakes? It smells like a bakery! she gasped. You must be in love. You never do this!

Not so loudshush, Emily answered, grinning, Come and taste. Theyre not cakes, theyre cheese scones. Proper ones.

The kettle boiled; Emily had already set out cups, a teapot, and a plate piled high with golden, sunny scones.

Youve certainly got the knack, her mother said. Its been ages since we baked together, and I thought youd forgotten it all, but youve done a splendid job… well done.

Dont just flatter me for the sake of it,” Emily said. “Tell me the truthare they alright, or are you just being nice?

Havent you got a tongue of your own? Try onetheyre delicious! her mother replied. Emily remembered her late fatherher mother had repeated his ultimate praise: Theyre good. The highest compliment.

I think Ill invite David round for tea soonfor these very scones. What do you think, will he like them?

Oh, hell love themand you dont need to ask! I hooked your father with scones just like these. He adored them, and me too! Her mother burst out laughing. Go on, bake, invite him overIll be out at the neighbours watching telly. Youve finally got some sense. Fashion and curled hair will only get you so far.

After that, David became a regular at Emilys. They bickered less, her mother grew used to the sound of laughter from the kitchen, and David was often seen lending a hand.

When Emily finally announced their wedding plans, Nora was moved to tears: At last

Emily changed, too. She slimmed down, hoping to look perfect for her big day, and David kept asking half-teasingly, Have you stopped baking scones altogether? Promise me therell be pies at the wedding?

On the day of the wedding, set in their cosy home, Emily, her mother, and her aunt (Noras sister) spent two days cooking, though only around twenty guests were expected, most of them relatives.

The newlyweds took the largest room in their three-bedroom flat, and a year later, everyone in the building finally got their own phone line. Emily enjoyed the noveltyshe called everyone at first, but her chats never dragged on endlessly anymore.

Oh, Rita, I really have to dash, the doughs just risen and Davids due home any minute. Bye!

She hurried back to the kitchen, where her dough had puffed up like a rising cushion. Emily was expecting their first baby, about to go on maternity leave. Yet, she still couldnt restshe baked and cooked for her husband, and truth be told, she loved those scones herself. The taste of home, real English cheese and dough! And her husband doted on her for itfor the baking, the warmth, and the love.

Looking back over these pages, I realise there is real joy in small things: a homemade recipe, a familiar kitchen, the sound of family and laughter. It isnt phone calls or fancy sweets but genuine effort, small kindnesses, and love that are the true recipe for happiness.

Strangers in Our Flat When Kate was the first to open the door, she froze on the threshold. From inside drifted the sound of the television, voices talking in the kitchen, and the unfamiliar scent of strangers. Startled, Max nearly dropped his suitcase behind her. “Quiet,” his wife whispered, holding out her arm. “Someone’s in there.” On their favourite beige sofa lounged two complete strangers—a man in sweatpants flipping the TV remote, and a large woman knitting beside him. There were teacups and plates scattered across their coffee table, with unfamiliar medicine bottles set among the crumbs. “Sorry, but who are you?” Kate’s voice shook. The strangers turned around, completely unfazed. “Oh, you’re back,” the knitting woman said, not putting down her needles. “We’re Lidia’s relatives. She gave us the keys, said the owners wouldn’t be home.” Max went pale. “What Lidia?” “Your mum,” the man finally rose. “We’re from Sheffield—here with Michael for his check-ups. She put us up, said you wouldn’t mind.” Kate walked unsteadily through to the kitchen. At the hob, a teenage boy was frying sausages; the fridge was crammed with their groceries, and the table was piled with dirty dishes. “And who are you?” she asked, barely breathing. “Michael,” the boy answered. “Isn’t it okay to eat? Grandma Lidia said it was.” Kate returned to the hallway just as Max was pulling out his phone. “Mum, what are you doing?” His voice was low but angry. From the handset came Lidia’s cheerful voice: “Max, you’re home? How was your trip? I gave Svetlana the keys—they’ve come up to London with Victor, for Michael’s doctor appointments. Thought, since you were away, the flat shouldn’t be empty! Just for a week.” “Mum, did you even ask us?” “Why would I? You weren’t there. Besides, just tell them I’m in charge—make sure they leave the place tidy.” Kate wrenched the phone: “Lidia, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?” “Strangers? That’s my cousin Svetlana! We shared a bed as children.” “I don’t care who you slept with—it’s our flat!” “Oh Kate, don’t be so hot-tempered! They’re family, and they’ll be quiet—nothing broken. The boy’s unwell, they need help. Or are you that greedy?” Her husband reclaimed the phone: “Mum, you’ve got one hour. You come and pick them up—all of them.” “Max, they’re supposed to stay till Friday! Michael has tests, consultations. They paid for a hotel, but I helped save them money.” “Mum, one hour. Or I call the police.” He hung up. Kate sank down onto the pouffe, face in her hands. The suitcases were still unpacked. The TV played in the living room, sausages sizzled in the kitchen. Two hours before, they’d sat on the plane anticipating home; now, they were guests in their own flat. “We’ll just collect our things,” the woman said nervously from the lounge. “Lidia meant well. We’d have asked but didn’t have your number. She suggested it; we just accepted. Thought—just a week here while we visit the hospital.” Max stood at the window, silent, his back taut the way it always was when his mother pushed too far. “Where’s our cat?” Kate suddenly blurted. “What cat?” “Ginger. We left the keys for him.” Svetlana shrugged. “Haven’t seen him.” Kate dashed to hunt, finally finding Ginger cowering under the bed, wild-eyed and bristling. When she tried to coax him out, he hissed and flattened his ears. “It’s all right, Ginger, it’s just me.” Max crouched beside her. “I’m sorry.” “For what? You had no idea.” “For Mum. For the way she is.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” Max fumed. “Remember when we first moved in—she’d turn up without even calling? I thought I made it clear that wasn’t on. Clearly not.” Voices came from the hall—the mother-in-law had arrived. Kate straightened her hair and went out. Lidia glared, indignant. “Max, have you completely lost your mind?” “Mum, sit down,” he gestured toward the kitchen. “Sit? Svetlana, Victor, pack up—they’re throwing us out. Let’s go to mine.” “Mum, please. Sit down,” he repeated. Lidia fell silent at last and followed them through, where Michael finished the last of his sausages. “Mum, explain to me: how did it even occur to you to let people into our flat without asking?” “I was helping!” Lidia protested. “Svetlana rang in tears—Michael’s unwell and they had nowhere to stay in London. Your flat was sitting empty.” “It’s not your flat.” “How not? I have keys.” “To feed the cat. Not to run a B&B.” “Max, honestly, these are family! Svetlana’s my cousin, Victor’s such a good man, Michael’s just a sick kid who needed help. Would you put them on the street?” Kate’s hands shook as she poured herself a glass of water. “You didn’t ask us, Lidia.” “Why would I? You weren’t home!” “That’s exactly why you had to,” Max raised his voice. “You could have called, texted, checked. We’d have worked it out.” “And what would you have decided? Say no?” “Maybe. Or said yes for a couple of days with boundaries. But at least we’d have known. That’s called *respect*.” Lidia stood up, bristling. “So typical! I try to help, and I get it thrown back in my face. Svetlana, get your things. Let’s go to mine.” “Mum, you’ve got a one-bed. You’re always saying you can’t fit four of you in.” “We’ll manage. Better than being stuck with the ungrateful.” Kate calmly set down her glass. “Lidia, please. You know it was wrong, or you’d have let us know ahead. You knew we’d say no, and now we’re left in this mess. You wanted to have your way, not do what’s right.” For the first time, Lidia seemed lost. “Svetlana was in tears. Michael was in pain. I just…wanted to help.” “And that’s understandable,” Max said gently. “But you can’t make decisions about what isn’t yours, Mum. Imagine if I moved into your flat while you were away and let my friends stay. Would you like that?” “I’d be furious.” “Exactly.” In awkward silence, the visitors packed up. Svetlana wept quietly, Victor shuffled bags. Michael hovered by the kitchen, eyes down. “I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled. “I thought it was okay—Grandma said so.” Kate looked at him—a normal, scared kid. None of this was his fault. “It’s all right, lovely. Go help your parents.” Lidia dabbed her eyes. “I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing. It never crossed my mind to check. You’re my children—I always looked after everything for you. I just… thought you’d be fine.” “We’re not children, Mum. We’re thirty. We have our own lives.” “I get it,” Lidia said, finally. “Do you want your keys back?” “We do,” Kate nodded. “Sorry, but trust is broken now.” “I understand.” Svetlana’s family left quickly, apologising profusely. Lidia bustled them home, promising to manage somehow. Max closed the door and leaned against it, exhausted. They walked silently around their flat—sheets to strip, fridge to clean out, everything bearing traces of strangers: left-behind bits and dirty cups and out-of-place furniture. Ginger still hid under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Kate asked as she opened the kitchen window. “I hope so.” “What if she didn’t?” “Then I’ll be firmer. This isn’t happening again.” She hugged him. Together, they stood in the middle of chaos in their own home. “You know what’s worst?” Kate stepped back. “The cat. Everything was for him—and he ended up scared and starving.” “Did they even feed him?” “Not from the look of it. Bowl’s empty, water filthy. I don’t think they even remembered him.” Max crouched beside the bed. “Sorry, Ginger. Gran’s not getting the keys again.” Gradually the cat crept out, rubbing against Max’s legs. Kate set down fresh food, and he ate ravenously. They started cleaning. Out went unfamiliar groceries, dirty sheets changed, dishes washed. Ginger ate, then curled up on the windowsill, at last content. The flat slowly became theirs again. That evening, Lidia rang. She sounded subdued, even remorseful: “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right—I’m sorry.” “Thanks, Mum.” “Is Kate upset with me?” He glanced at his wife, who nodded. “She is,” he said. “But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat on the kitchen together for a long, quiet while. Night pressed in outside. Their flat was peaceful at last, theirs once again—yet their holiday had ended, harshly and all too soon.

010

I Built My Home on My Mother-in-Law’s Land. After My Husband Passed Away, She Decided to Sell It So Her Daughter Could Move In. I Called In the Demolition Crew. When I Met My Husband, We Were Young, in Love, and Penniless. We Married Quickly, Despite All Warnings. Love Made Us Believe Anything Was Possible. His Mother Offered Us a Plot of Her Land. “Build here,” she said. “There’s plenty of space.” We looked at each other, hope shining in our eyes. This was our chance. We saved every penny. He worked on construction sites from dawn till dusk. I cleaned, I sewed, I did whatever I could find. On weekends, we worked side by side — brick by brick, building our home. I remember his hands, cracked from cement, and his smile at the end of a long day. “It’ll be beautiful,” he’d say, kissing my forehead. “We’ll raise our children here.” It took us three years. Three years of sacrifice, bills, sleepless nights. But we made it. We installed an expensive metal roof, aluminium windows, a real bathroom with tiles I picked out one by one. He even built a small pool in the garden. “For the kids, so they can cool off in summer,” he said proudly. The house wasn’t luxurious, but it was ours. Every wall was full of sweat, love, and dreams. My mother-in-law visited often. We’d have coffee in the garden, she’d say how happy she was for us. Her other daughter rarely came. When she did, she looked at the house with a mix of envy and disdain. Then came that damned Tuesday. My husband left for work early, as always. He hugged me at the door. “I’ll see you tonight. I love you.” Those were his last words. They told me it was instant. A beam. He didn’t suffer, but I did. I sank into a pain so deep, sometimes I forgot to breathe. Two weeks after the funeral, I discovered I was pregnant. Four months. A girl. Our dream — without him. At first, my mother-in-law came every day. She brought food, she hugged me. I thought, at least I’m not alone. But a month later, everything changed. It was Sunday. I was sitting in the living room, stroking my stomach, when I heard their car. They came in without knocking. My mother-in-law wouldn’t look me in the eye. “We need to talk,” she said. “What is it?” I asked, feeling my stomach twist. “My daughter is in a tough situation. She’s divorced and needs a place to live.” “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “If she wants to stay here temporarily…” “No,” she cut me off. “She needs this house.” The world stopped. “What?” “The land is mine,” my mother-in-law said coldly. “It always has been. You built, but the land is mine. And now… my son is gone.” “But we built this,” my voice trembled. “Every penny, every brick…” “It’s unfortunate what happened,” her daughter said. “But legally this house is on our land. The land is ours.” “I’m pregnant with his child!” I shouted. “Exactly,” my mother-in-law said. “You can’t manage alone. You’ll get something for the improvements.” She handed me an envelope. Inside, a pitiful sum. Insulting. “This is an insult,” I said. “I won’t accept it.” “Then you leave with nothing,” she replied. “The decision is made.” I was left alone in the house we’d built with love. I wept for my husband, for our child, for our shattered life. That night I didn’t sleep. I walked through every room, touched the walls, and made a decision. If I couldn’t have this house, no one would. The next day, I started making calls. The roof was taken off. The windows removed. The pool, pipes, wiring — everything we’d paid for. “Are you sure?” one of the workers asked. “Absolutely,” I replied. My mother-in-law arrived, furious. “What are you doing?!” “I’m taking what’s mine. You wanted the land — here it is.” There were no contracts. Nothing but our labor. The last day, the demolition crew arrived. “Are you sure?” the operator asked. “This isn’t a home anymore,” I said. “The home died with my husband.” The machine started. The walls came down, one by one. It hurt, but it was freeing. When it was over, only rubble remained. Now I’m staying with my mother. In a small room. I sold the roof, the windows. That money will see us through until my daughter is born. I’ll tell her about her father. How we built a home with our own hands. I’ll teach her that sometimes, when the world takes everything from you, the most important thing is to never let it take your dignity. And what do you think — was I right to tear down the house, or should I have just walked away and left everything behind?

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