The Truth That Gripped My Heart: Sonya’s Struggle for Kindness Next Door, a Mother’s Cruelty, and the Neighbour’s Quiet Love

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

The truth that left everything hollow inside

So, I was pegging out the washing in the back garden one afternoon when I heard quiet sobs and glanced over the fence. There, huddled by the gate, was Sophieour little neighbour, just eight years old. She looked even younger, thin and fragile, barely the size of a six-year-old despite being in Year Three at school.

Sophie, have they upset you again? Come inside, love, I said, pushing aside a loose plank in the fence. She popped through easily; it wasnt the first time shed come running to ours.

Mums thrown me out. Said Get lost and shoved me out the door. She and Uncle Colin are having a laugh in there, Sophie sniffed, brushing away tears.

Dont worry, come in. Emily and Michael are eatingits teatime. Ill get you a plate.

Id taken Sophie in plenty of times, protecting her from her mothers harshnessmy neighbour, Ann, was quick to temper and everyone knew it. Id keep Sophie with us until Ann had calmed down and cooled off; then, only then, would she wander home.

Sophie always envied my Emily and Michael. My husband and I doted on our kids, never shouted, always made home feel safe. Sophie used to watch us, desperate to have what they had. Shed sit with us and soak in our warmth, looking like she wished she could stay forever. Sometimes shed say the tight feeling in her chest was almost too much; she was jealous, sure, but also desperate for kindness.

At home, Sophie wasnt allowed much. Ann had her lugging buckets, scrubbing the shed, weeding the veg patch and mopping the floors. Ann had had Sophie alone, never married, and never seemed to bond with her. Back when Anns mum was still aliveSophies granit was better. Gran loved her, stood up for her, watched over her. Ann barely touched her daughter. But after Gran died, when Sophie was six, things really went downhill. Ann grew bitter about being single, always searching for a partner.

Ann worked as a cleaner at the local bus depota job mostly filled with blokes. When a new driver, Colin, started, she latched onto him, and soon he was living with them. Colin, divorced and paying child support for his own son, didnt mind the arrangementroof over his head and all that. Ann doted on Colin, shuffled after him all hours; Sophie was mostly ignored except when Ann was in a mood.

Colin thought nothing of Sophie. Let her potter round, hed shrug, shell be useful once shes older. Ann channelled all her affection to Colin. Sophie bore the bruntscolded, made to work, sometimes hit.

If you dont listen, Ill send you away to a childrens home, Ann would threaten.

Sophie never had the strength for all the chores, so shed sit and cry in the shadow of our currant bush by the fence. If I saw her, Id scoop her up and bring her in. She was withdrawn, anxious; barely talked to anyone.

Everyone in our village saw how Ann treated her daughterpeople talked, and so did I. But Ann spun her own stories: Dont listen to that neighbour, Linda. Shes after my Colin, thats why she makes things up about Sophie being mistreated.

Ann and Colin were known for wild parties; when they got drunk, Sophied sneak out and sleep at ours. I always felt for her in a way that, honestly, I dont think anyone else did.

Time passed. Sophie did well at school, grew up a bit. After GCSEs, she wanted to go off and study nursing in the city. Ann snapped, Youll get a job. Youre old enough. Youre not lounging about here. Sophie ran out, tears brimming, because crying at home was forbidden.

She came next door, told me everything. My Emily and Michael were off at university by then. I couldnt hold back; I marched over to Anns house.

Ann, youre being cruel. Most mums bend over backwards for their kids, but you push Sophie away. You should have some basic decency. Shes finished school nearly top of her class! She deserves a chance.

Ann went off at me. Who do you think you are? Mind your own business!

I wouldnt back down. Colins put his own son through college, even though hes not around himwhy wont you let Sophie study? Dont you want better for your own child?

Ann shouted and swore, then collapsed on the sofa, exhausted.

Alright, Im tough on Sophie, but its to make her strong, not like me. At least she wont end up with a kid and no husband. Finelet her go, let her learn. Whatever.

Sophie got into nursing college easily, thrilled to bits. She felt awkward about her worn clothes, but plenty of country girls looked the same; no one judged her. She came home less and less.

She didnt want to see Ann and Colin. But during holidays, shed pop round to ours first. Id feed her, chat to her; she felt safe at our place.

Ann had her own troubles by thenColin had run off with a younger woman, leaving Ann furious and alone. When Sophie came back for her term break, Ann just scowled: Why are you here? Youre not getting a free ridego get a job.

Colin came in one day, packing his bags. Ann tried to stop him, but he just sneered.

Ritas having my baby. Im not abandoning my child, like you did yours. I want my kid to have love and family, not like your Sophieshes never known a real mum. My sons going to have both parents and a proper home. He left, just like that.

Ann was gutted. Didnt shout or cryshe just seemed empty. Colin had laid bare the truth, and it stunned her into silence.

Sophie heard everything, but she didnt comfort Ann. She remembered all the smacks and shouting; neither Colin nor Ann ever stood up for her. Colin watched her suffering, always acting the lord of the house.

In her final college year, Sophie worked at the hospital, earning her own keep. She never went homeAnn was drinking, money was short, the house was falling apart. Sophie had blossomed into a lovely, capable womankind to her patients, respected by her colleagues. Everyone said Ann had raised her well; Sophie just smiled, thinking, Thats all thanks to Linda. I owe her everythingher kindness, her support, her help, even guiding me in my career.

Ann was always bringing home odd friends, fellow drinkers. Even when Sophie visited, she was shocked at Anns state. Ann had lost her job, slid further into the bottle. Sophie tried talking sense into her, wanted to clear the house out and start fresh, but Ann wouldnt change.

Sophie held back her tears as she visited after graduation. Ann greeted her coldly.

What are you doing here? Dont stay longtheres no food, no electric. Give me money. My head hurts.

Sophie swallowed hard, pain in her throat, but didnt cry.

Im not staying long. I got my diploma with distinction and Im moving to the county hospital. Ill send a bit of money now and then, but I wont be back often. Bye, Mum.

Ann barely registered it, just wanted cash.

Give me money. How can you be so heartless? What kind of daughter are you?

Sophie quietly put some money on the table, closed the door behind her, pausing in hope her mum would run out and hug her. She didnt. Sophie walked slowly to ours.

I saw her, made her sit down for dinner with us. My husband was already at the table.

Oh, waitI nearly forgot! I popped into the spare room and brought out a bag. A little gift for graduating, and some cash to help you get started.

Sophie started crying.

Linda, why is it like this? Why does my mum treat me like Im a stranger?

I hugged her tight. Dont cry, Sophie. Theres nothing you can do now. Thats just Ann. Maybe you were born at the wrong time. But youre clever and youre kindyoull be loved, and youll find happiness, I know it.

Sophie moved to the city, got a job in the surgical ward as a nurse. Soon she met her future husband, Edward, a young surgeon who fell for her on the spot. They married not long after, and I got to sit by her side at the wedding, brimming with pride.

Ann crowed to her drinking pals, I raised that daughtershe sends me money every month! Shes grateful to me. I got her educated. Shame I wasnt invited to the wedding, Ive never met my grandchildren, or even my son-in-law.

Some time later, I discovered Ann at homedead. No one knew for how long. It was worryingly quiet, so I checked in. Sophie and Edward arranged the funeral, then sold the house. Now and then, theyd pop in to see us.

Happy Women Always Look Their Best Lily struggled through her husband’s betrayal. At forty, she found herself alone; her daughter was studying at university in another city. Just two months earlier, Igor had come home and announced: “I’m leaving you, I’ve fallen in love.” Shocked, Lily asked, “With whom?” He replied flatly, “The way men always do… I’ve met someone else, I’m happier with her. Don’t try to persuade me—I’ve made up my mind.” He packed his things and left, all matter-of-fact, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was only later, after analysing things, that Lily realised he hadn’t made his decision overnight—he’d been quietly preparing to leave, only throwing his things in a suitcase at the last minute before slamming the door shut. Alone now, Lily cried and convinced herself that nothing good would ever happen to her again, that life had either ended or frozen. She withdrew from friends, ignored calls from her daughter and best friend, and even distanced herself from colleagues, some of whom pitied her while others looked on with schadenfreude. Lily even hoped: “Maybe Igor will tire of the woman who stole him from me, maybe he’ll come back and I’ll forgive him. After all, I still love him.” One morning, a phone call from an unknown number disrupted her despair: “Could it be Igor?” she wondered, hoping irrationally. But the call was from Ksenia, an old school friend, back in town after years away. Ksenia was radiant—well-groomed, stylish, and bursting with energy. She took charge, arriving with wine, cake, and oranges for a spontaneous celebration. After hearing Lily’s woes, Ksenia dismissed them: “Don’t make life so hard! You just need a change—a new look, some shopping, and maybe new love.” She whisked Lily to the mall and hairdresser, transforming her with a fresh haircut and stylish outfit. A week later at their school reunion, Lily’s transformation stunned everyone, especially Viktor, an old admirer who had also recently gone through a divorce. Viktor showered her with attention, and their easy happiness made Lily feel new and vibrant again. Two months later, strolling arm-in-arm with Viktor along the embankment after a theatre night, Lily spotted Igor—thinner now, and alone. He didn’t recognise her at first, but when he realised, he was shocked: “You look amazing!” Lily smiled and introduced him to Viktor as her “future husband.” As Igor gaped, Lily took Viktor’s hand and walked confidently away. For happy women always look their best.

I’m 60 and about to turn 61 in two months—not a milestone birthday like 70 or 80, but it means a lot to me. I want to celebrate it properly: not with a hurried cake or a casual lunch, but with a real, well-organised party—an elegant dinner, beautifully set tables, decorated chairs, waiters, soft music. Something that will make me feel alive, appreciated, and grateful for everything I’ve been through. The problem is, my children don’t agree. I have two grown-up sons. Both live with me—with their partners and children. The house is always full: noise, TV blaring, children running, conversations, arguments. Of course I love them… but I have no quiet moments anymore. I’m never alone. Never. They work, but in truth, I cover most of the expenses. I have a pension, money my husband left me, and a small business I still run. I pay the bills, buy the groceries, pay for repairs, and often provide ‘temporary help’ that turns permanent. Helping never bothered me. What bothers me now is that my sons make decisions for me. When I told them I wanted to have a party, they claimed it was a waste of money. That, at my age, I shouldn’t spend it on tables, food, and waiters. That the money would be better given to them—for investments, for their own needs, for ‘something useful’. They spoke to me as if I were irresponsible with my own savings. I explained that I wouldn’t need to borrow and that I’ve been thinking about this for months. But they wouldn’t listen, insisting it’s an unnecessary expense. One of them said to me: — Mum, things like this aren’t for you anymore. That stung more than I expected. I started thinking things I never dared say aloud. That sometimes I just want to be alone in my own house. That I miss waking up to peace and quiet. That I wish I could come home to an empty living room. That I want to make decisions without having to justify myself. I’ve even considered telling them to find their own place—not out of spite, but because I feel like I’ve done my part. But then I feel guilty. I’m afraid of sounding selfish. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to ‘kick anyone out’ for the night. I just want to know if I’m wrong for wanting to celebrate. For craving a bit of quiet. For wanting my money to be spent on me, too. I’m writing because I genuinely don’t know what to do—whether to stand my ground or give in. Whether to have the party even though they disapprove. Tell me, am I wrong to want to celebrate my birthday my way—and to want my home and my money not to be a ‘family decision’?

ARE YOU REALLY MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, marriage was never part of my plans. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s relentless wooing, I’d still be flying free as a bird. Artem was like a lovesick butterfly — fluttering endlessly around me, never letting me out of his sight, doing his best to please, treating me like I was made of glass… Eventually, I gave in. We got married. Artem instantly felt like home — comfortable, familiar, like a favourite pair of slippers. A year later, our son Stanley was born. Artem worked in another city, coming home only once a week, always bringing tasty treats for little Stan. During one visit, I prepared to wash his clothes, routinely checking all his pockets (I’d once washed his driving licence by accident!). This time, a folded paper slipped out of his trousers — a lengthy list of school supplies (it was August), with a childlike scrawl at the bottom: “Dad, please come home soon.” So, that’s how my husband entertains himself elsewhere! Bigamist! I didn’t make a scene — just packed a bag, took Stan (not yet three) by the hand, and went off to my mum’s for an extended stay. Mum gave us a spare room: “Live here till you make up.” Vengeful thoughts emerged against my thankless husband. I remembered my old schoolmate Rob — why not have a “romance” with him! Rob never gave me a moment’s peace, back in school or after. I phoned him. “Hi, Rob! Not married yet?” I began, playing it cool. “Nadine? Hey! Does it matter? Married, divorced… Shall we meet?” My unscheduled fling with Rob lasted half a year. Artem delivered child support to my mum in silence every month, then left. I knew he was living with Cathy Yates now. She had a daughter from a previous marriage. Cathy made her call Artem “Dad.” They all lived in Artem’s flat. When Cathy found out I’d left, she moved in with her daughter from another city straight away. Cathy worshipped Artem — knitted him woolly socks and warm jumpers, cooked fancy meals. I learnt about all this later, and I’ll forever tease my husband about Cathy Yates. Back then, though, it felt like our marriage was done — like it had hit a dead end and crashed. But when Artem and I met for coffee to discuss the upcoming divorce, warm memories swept over us both. Artem confessed his undying love and remorse, admitting he had no idea how to get rid of clingy Cathy. I felt unbearably sorry for him. We got back together. For the record, Artem never found out about Rob. Cathy and her daughter left town for good. Seven blissful years passed. Then Artem got into a car accident — operations, rehab, walking with a stick. The recovery took two years, left him drained, and he began drinking heavily. He completely withdrew from life. It was torture watching it all. Trying to talk him round didn’t help — he wore himself and us down and refused all help. But at work, I found a shoulder to cry on — Paul. He listened to me during smoke breaks, strolled with me after work, offered comfort and encouragement. Paul was married, with his wife expecting their second child. I can’t fathom how we ended up in bed together. Madness. He was a head shorter than me, not my type at all! Still, Paul whisked me off to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. When his wife gave birth to a daughter, he stopped all amusements, quit our company, found another job. Maybe he thought — “out of sight, out of mind”? I never laid claim to him, so let him go easily. Paul had only dulled my pain for a while; I never meant to interfere in someone else’s love. Meanwhile, my husband drank himself senseless. Five years later, I’d bump into Paul by chance — he’d seriously propose marriage. I found it funny. Artem rallied briefly, left for work in the Czech Republic. I became the model wife and doting mum, heart focused solely on my family. He returned half a year later. We renovated the flat, splurged on new appliances. Artem finally fixed his car. Life should’ve been peachy. But no — he lost control and started drinking again. The cycle of hell repeated. His mates had to carry him home; he couldn’t walk by himself, only crawl at best. I scoured our neighbourhood looking for my errant husband, usually finding him asleep on a bench, pockets turned out. I’d drag him home. It was always something. One spring, I stood sadly at the bus stop as birds sang and the sun smiled. Suddenly, a suave voice whispered in my ear: “Perhaps I can ease your troubles?” I turned. My word — what a handsome, fragrant gent! And I was 45! Could I become a rose again? But I blushed like a schoolgirl. Thankfully, my bus arrived, and I hopped on, far away from temptation. He waved as I left. All day, I could only think about him. I played hard to get for two weeks… to keep up appearances. But Egor (the mysterious stranger) pressed his advantage — waiting every morning at the same bus stop. Soon, I was checking from afar if my charmer was there. Egor would beam and blow air kisses when he saw me. One day, he brought a huge bunch of red tulips. “Where am I supposed to take flowers to work?” I laughed. “I’ll be exposed in no time — guilty with nothing I’ve done!” Egor grinned: “Didn’t consider the ‘terrible’ consequences.” He handed the bouquet to an old lady watching our drama closely. Her eyes sparkled! “Thank you, love! May you find a passionate girlfriend!” I blushed. At least she didn’t wish him a young girlfriend — I’d have vanished into thin air with shame! Egor turned to me: “How about we share the blame, Nadine? You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the idea was tempting and timely. There was nothing left of my marriage then anyway. Artem was an immovable log, lost in a drunken stupor. Egor was a tee-total, ex-athlete (57) and a captivating conversationalist. Divorced. He had a magnetic charm! I plunged headlong into a love affair — a whirlpool of passion, for three years torn between home and Egor. My soul was in turmoil. When I finally wanted to end it, I couldn’t find the strength. Egor had a hold on me — mind, body, and soul! He’d stand next to me and I’d lose my breath — it was madness! Still, I knew it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t love. After heated rendezvous, I’d come home longing to cuddle my husband — even drunk, unkempt, but so familiar and dear. My own crust seemed sweeter than any stranger’s cake. That was my truth. Passion? It comes from “to suffer.” I wanted to finish suffering, leave Egor behind and return to my family, not just drift along in pleasure. My mind thought so, but my body kept falling into the sweet abyss. My son found out about Egor when he saw us in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I introduced them. They shook hands politely. Later, Stan looked at me over dinner, expecting an explanation. I joked it was a colleague meeting about a new project. “Uh-huh… in a restaurant,” Stan nodded knowingly. He didn’t judge, but begged me not to divorce his dad. “Don’t rush — maybe Dad will come to his senses.” I felt lost, astray, a black sheep. My divorced friend insisted: “Dump those scruffy lovers and settle down!” I listened. After all, she was working on her third husband. But I only managed to break it off when Egor tried to strike me. That was it. Just like my friend warned — “The sea is calm until you leave the shore…” The scales fell from my eyes. I was free. Three years of torment! At last, peace. Egor chased after me for ages everywhere, begging on his knees for forgiveness. I never wavered. My wise friend gifted me a mug: “You did the right thing!” As for Artem, he knew everything about my wild escapades. Egor phoned and told him. Egor believed I’d leave my family. Artem admitted: “When I listened to your admirer’s tales, I wanted to quietly die. It was all my fault! I lost my wife to the bottle. Idiot. What could I say to you?” Ten years have passed since then. Now we’ve two granddaughters. One day, Artem and I sat at the table drinking coffee. I gazed out the window. Artem gently took my hand: “Nadine, stop looking elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”