There Will Be No Forgiveness “Have you ever thought about finding your mother?” The question caught Vicky so off guard that she involuntarily flinched. She was in the middle of sorting through documents she’d brought home from work, carefully steadying the wobbly stack on the kitchen table with her palm. Now, her hands froze midair, her gaze slowly lifting to Alex. Genuine astonishment flashed in her eyes—where on earth had he gotten such an idea? Why would she ever want to track down the woman who had callously derailed the course of her life? “Of course not,” Vicky replied, keeping her voice steady. “What a ridiculous idea. Why would I ever do that?” Alex looked briefly embarrassed, running a hand through his hair as if collecting his thoughts. His crooked smile seemed to say he’d already started to regret the question. “I just… well, I’ve heard that children in foster care often dream of finding their birth parents. So I thought… If you ever wanted to, I’d help. Really.” Vicky shook her head, her chest suddenly tight as if an invisible hand squeezed her ribs. She drew a steadying breath, willing away the rising irritation, then looked him in the eye once more. “Thank you for offering, but don’t bother,” she said, her voice a shade louder than before. “I won’t look for her. That woman stopped being my mother a long time ago. I will never forgive her!” Yes, it sounded harsh. But there was no other way. Otherwise she would be forced to dredge up ugly memories, pouring her heart out in front of the man she loved. And some things you never want to share, even with those closest to you. So she reached for the stack of documents again, feigning intense busyness. Alex frowned, but didn’t push further. It was clear her blunt answer unsettled him. Deep down, he simply couldn’t grasp her position. To him, a mother was something almost sacred—regardless of her involvement, the woman who carried a child for nine months and gave birth was worthy of reverence. He honestly believed there was a special, unbreakable bond between mother and child, impervious to time or circumstance. But Vicky not only dismissed this notion—she utterly rejected it, without a shadow of doubt. For her, it was all clear cut: how could someone long to see the person who had once shown such terrifying lack of care? Her so-called “mum” hadn’t just sent her to care; the details were darker. They cut deeper. Years ago, as a teenager, Vicky had finally worked up the courage to ask what she’d long wanted to know. She went to see Mrs Wilkinson, the head of the home—a strict but fair woman, universally respected by the children. “Why am I here?” Vicky asked softly but firmly. “Did my mum die? Or was she stripped of her parental rights? Something serious must have happened, right?” Mrs Wilkinson paused, putting aside the paperwork on her desk. She sat for a moment in silence, weighing her answer, then sighed and nodded to the chair. Vicky sat, fingers clenched tightly to the edge, anxiety churning within. She sensed she was about to learn something that would forever reshape her view of the past. “She was stripped of her rights, and faced criminal charges,” Mrs Wilkinson began carefully, watching Vicky with concern. She would spare no euphemism—a twelve-year-old deserved the truth, however much it might hurt. Better a harsh truth than gentle ignorance. She paused, collected herself, then continued, “You were brought to us aged four and a half, reported by someone who spotted a small, lost girl walking alone. It turned out a woman had left you on a railway station bench and boarded a train. It was autumn, damp and cold. You wore just a thin coat and wellies. Several hours outside meant a long hospital stay. You were very ill, it took ages to recover.” Vicky sat unmoving, almost petrified. Her knuckles whitened, but her face was expressionless—only her eyes seemed darker, stormy. She listened, taking in every word, even as a hurricane tore at her inside. “Did they find her? And what did she say for herself?” Vicky managed, voice barely above a whisper. “They did. She was found and tried. Her excuse?” Mrs Wilkinson gave a bitter half-smile. “She didn’t have money, apparently found a job, and her employer wouldn’t allow children at the site—you were in the way. So she left you and started over, free of ‘burdens.'” Vicky’s fists slowly unclenched as her hands dropped to her knees. She stared ahead, as if seeing nothing, mind drifting to that forgotten October morning. “I see,” she said in an empty, even voice, then looked Mrs Wilkinson in the eye. “Thank you for being honest.” That moment Vicky vowed, with finality, never to seek her mother. Not ever. The passing curiosity to see the woman’s face and ask “why?” was gone forever. To leave a child on the street—how was it possible? Did the woman who gave her life lack even a hint of compassion? Anything could have happened to a child alone on a rainy English street! “That’s not the act of a person; it’s the act of a beast!” Vicky silently screamed, her heart pierced anew by sharp, splintered pain. She tried to find excuses—perhaps her mother was desperate, with no other way? Perhaps thinking it was better for Vicky? But each rationalisation crashed against the hard reality: Why not surrender her officially? Why leave a four-year-old on a cold station platform? No explanation softened the pain or made the betrayal less deliberate. It was a choice—cold and calculated—to be rid of a child like she was an unwanted object. With every sweep of these thoughts Vicky’s resolve solidified. No. She would never go searching, never forgive, never even try to understand. No understanding could ever unmake what was done. Forgiveness was simply beyond her. And with that certainty, she felt a strange, almost physical sense of freedom… ******************** “I’ve got a surprise for you!” Alex practically glowed with excitement, fidgeting in the hallway like a child about to unwrap a present. “You’re going to love it! Come on, we mustn’t keep people waiting!” Vicky paused at her bedroom door with a mug of cooling tea. She studied him, puzzled, before setting her cup aside. What was this surprise? And why, despite his cheerful tone, did she feel a chill of foreboding tighten inside? “Where are we going?” she asked, disguising unease with forced calm. “You’ll see soon!” Alex grinned wider, leading her eagerly outside. “Trust me—it’s worth it.” Vicky followed, anxiety churning beneath her skin. She slipped on her coat and shoes and stepped out with him. All the way to the park she tried to guess: tickets for a concert? Meeting old friends? Her thoughts raced, but nothing fit. In the park, Vicky immediately noticed a woman perched on a bench by the path. She was plainly but neatly dressed—a dark coat, scarf, and a small handbag on her knees. There was something familiar about her face, but Vicky struggled to recall where she’d seen the woman before. Perhaps a distant relative of Alex’s? A family friend? Alex led her straight to the bench. The woman looked up and smiled gently. In that instant, something within Vicky jolted—she knew exactly where she’d seen that face. In the mirror, if you added thirty or forty years. “Vicky,” Alex announced with ceremony, as though making a grand declaration, “I’m so pleased to say: after a long search, I’ve found your mum. Aren’t you happy?” Vicky stood frozen—her world stilled. How could he? She’d made it perfectly clear she never wanted to see this woman. “Darling! You’ve grown up into such a beautiful woman!” the lady cried, sweeping forward for a hug. Tears sparkled in her eyes, her arms wide in a hopeful embrace. Vicky recoiled, her expression turning icy. “It’s me—your mum!” the woman pressed on, as if willing herself not to see the wall before her. “I looked for you for so long! I never stopped thinking about you, worrying…” “Yes, it wasn’t easy!” Alex jumped in, beaming. “I had to ask friends, make so many calls, search all sorts of contacts… But I’m glad it worked out!” A sharp, stinging slap broke his words. Vicky’s hand flew instantly, tears of grief and fury in her eyes. She stared at Alex with utter disbelief: how could he? How could he betray her trust so deeply? “What are you doing?” Alex gasped, clutching his cheek, stunned. “I did this for you! I wanted to help—” Vicky was silent, literally unable to speak as outrage and pain boiled inside. It felt as if Alex—her own fiancé—had ripped away her foundation, breaking the one rule that mattered most: do not touch the past she’d worked so hard to bury. The woman hovered between them, lost for words, glancing between her daughter’s icy face and Alex’s shock. “I never asked you to find her,” Vicky managed at last, voice trembling but flat. “I made it very clear I didn’t want this. And you did it anyway!” Alex lowered his hand but was speechless. He searched her expression for the faintest sign she might relent, but found only bitter determination. “I was clear: I don’t even want to hear about that woman!” Vicky’s voice shook with rage, old wounds torn wide. “That ‘mother’ left me on a railway platform at four—alone—among strangers, in just a thin coat! You think I should forgive that?” Alex went pale, but stood his ground, drawing himself up: “She’s your mother! No matter what, she’s still your mum!” The woman, edge of the group, stepped forward at last, voice small and tentative. “You were ill a lot, I couldn’t afford medicine,” she began. “That job was a chance to fix things. I’d have come for you—once things were better, we could be together again…” Vicky spun to face her, her eyes sharp as glass. “Come for me from where—the cemetery?” Her voice was harsh now, but she couldn’t hold back. “You could have called social services, filled in the right forms, left me safely in hospital—but not abandoned me in the cold! Not alone!” Alex, desperate to end the rising confrontation, tried to reach for her hand. Vicky snatched it away. “The past is the past, let’s live in the present,” he pleaded. “You always said you longed for family at our wedding—well, now you’ll have it…” Vicky’s look was so raw with disappointment Alex backed away. “I’ve already invited Mrs Wilkinson from the children’s home, and Miss Evans, my care worker,” she told him, her voice quieter but unwavering. “They are my real mothers. They were there when I needed someone. They taught me, supported me, cared for me. They are my family.” Wrenching her arm out of Alex’s grip, Vicky turned and fled the park. Her feet carried her far as the storm inside made it hard to breathe. This betrayal—she could never have seen it coming. She had hidden nothing from him—shared the ugly truths of her childhood without gloss, told him about those long days in care when she still hoped her mother would return. He had listened, nodded, claimed to understand. And yet, he’d hunted her mother down and brought her here. “She’s your mother, and that’s that”—his words echoed, bringing fresh waves of bitterness. “Never,” Vicky decided fiercely. She would never let that woman back in her life. Never pretend nothing had happened. She walked from the park, barely noticing her surroundings, her mother’s face haunting every step. Vicky clenched her fists, willing the memory away—needing only to get far, far away from it all. She didn’t go back to Alex’s for her things; luckily, most were packed at her tiny council flat. No return needed, not while each thought of him burned anew. Her phone wouldn’t stop—Alex called again and again, then left angry voice messages: “You’re acting like a child! I did my best for you, and now you’re being ungrateful—” The next was sharper still: “It’s settled. Lyn will be at the wedding. That’s final. Our kids will call her Gran. Deal with it.” Vicky listened at the bus stop, every word tightening the ache in her chest. She powered her phone off, dropped it in her pocket, eyes on the overcast sky. Her world had just cracked wide open—and she had no idea how to mend it. Eventually, she typed a message: “The wedding’s cancelled. I don’t want to see you or that woman ever again.” Send. She watched the tick mark confirm delivery, then set the phone aside. The screen flashed with Alex’s name—she didn’t move. More messages came, unread. She pulled up his number, blocked him, and finally let herself soak in the silence. No more calls, no more notifications. Only the rare feeling of peace, like a warm blanket. Maybe she’d regret this decision later. Maybe. But right now, it was the only choice that felt right. The storm inside her settled slowly, replaced by calm certainty. It was the right thing to do. She could never have a future with someone who’d betray her like that…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 15 minViews 1

There Will Be No Forgiveness

Have you ever thought about looking for your mother?

The question came so suddenly that Victoria nearly jumped. She was at the kitchen table, sorting through stacks of paperwork shed brought home from the office, one hand carefully steadying the teetering pile. Now, her hands slowed and fell to her lap as she turned to Charles. The bewilderment in her eyes was unmistakablehow could he even think of such a thing? Why would she ever want to find the woman who had, with a casual sweep, upended nearly all the paths her life might have taken?

Of course not, Victoria replied, her voice steady but strained. What a preposterous idea. Why on earth would I want to do that?

Charles flushed, running a hand through his hair as if to gather his thoughts. He managed a small, self-conscious smile, already regretting having spoken.

Its just he began awkwardly, well, you hear about so many people from childrens homes or foster backgrounds, longing to find their real parents. I thought If ever you wanted to, Id help you. Truly.

Victoria shook her head. Something heavy pressed in her chest, as if an invisible hand were squeezing her ribs. She took a long breath, trying to calm the flicker of irritation. She looked at Charles again.

Thank you, but theres no need, she said, her voice firmer, a shade louder. I will never look for her. That woman ceased to exist for me long ago. Ill never forgive her!

The words came out sharp, and so they must. Otherwise, she would be forced to dredge up old wounds, pour her heart out before her fiancé. She loved him deeplytrulybut there are things best left buried, not even shared with those we hold closest. So she bent over her files again, feigning absorption in work.

Charles frowned, but let it pass. He clearly didnt like Victorias cold response. He could never quite grasp why she felt so strongly. For him, mothers were almost sacred; whether they raised you or not, the simple fact a woman bore a childbrought one into the worldwas a kind of hallowed act. He truly believed there was a bond between mother and child nothingneither time nor fatecould break.

But Victoria rejected all such sentiment outright. For her, it was clear: how could anyone want to see someone who treated them with such callousness? Her so-called mother hadn’t simply sent her to a childrens homeit was far worse, and far more painful than that.

Years ago, when Victoria was still a teenager, shed finally been driven to question the past that gnawed at her. She approached the headmistress of the childrens home, Mrs. Edith Brown, a strict but just woman the children respected.

Why am I here? Victoria had asked, quietly but intently. Did my mother die? Or was she stripped of her rights? Something serious must have happened, surely?

Mrs. Brown paused, her papers forgotten on her desk as she considered how to answer. After a heavy silence, she gestured kindly to a chair.

Victoria sat, her fingers white around the seat, anxiety twisting in her gut. Shed long suspected this moment would bring some truth that would change her understanding of everything.

She lost her rights and was prosecuted, Mrs. Brown said at last, carefully choosing her words. Her calm manner belied the troubled look in her eyes. Here was a bitter truth, the sort kept from most children, but Mrs. Brown had always believed it better to know than to live with lies.

She paused a moment, thoughtful, then continued.

You came to us at four and a half. A few local people reported seeing a small, lost child wandering the street alone. You were tiny and bewildered. We later found youd been left on a bench at Euston station, and your mother simply boarded a train and left. It was autumn, chilly and damp. You wore only a thin coat and wellies. After several hours, you were hospitalised with pneumonia and needed weeks to recover.

Victoria sat utterly still, her hands clenched, though her face remained an unreadable mask. If anything, her eyes darkened, as if clouds had gathered behind her gaze. She didnt speak, not even when Mrs. Brown continued gently.

She was found and tried, Mrs. Brown went on. Her excuse? She allowed herself a sad, humourless smile. She said she had no money, and a job had come upone that didnt allow children on site. It was at a guest house, something like that. Apparently, it was simpler to leave you behind and start afresh.

Victorias hands slowly unclenched. She stared ahead, lost somewhere in a forgotten autumn morning she could no longer recall.

I understand, she said at last, her voice flat, toneless. Then she looked up at Mrs. Brown, adding, Thank you for telling me the truth.

In that moment, she knew herself: she would never look for that womannever. Any curiosity that had sometimes flickered at the edges of her mindmight she, one day, look into her eyes and simply ask whywas gone forever.

To leave your own child on a park bench, alone, with nothinghow could anyone do such a thing? Had the woman who bore her really been so utterly without conscience or mercy? Anything could have happened to a little girl left on a chilly London pavement.

“An act of a beast, not a human,” Victoria would tell herself bitterly. She tried, honestly tried, to imagine some justification. Perhaps her mother had been desperate. Perhaps she truly had no choice. Perhaps, by her own logic, it might even have seemed better for Victoria.

But every such excuse crumbled under the weight of the plain facts. Why not sign the necessary forms? Why not bring her to the authorities safely? Why gamble with a childs life on a cold October street?

She turned these thoughts over again and again, searching for answers. None came. None softened the blow. What happened was nothing less than a deliberate, calculated casting-off, as if of nothing more than unwanted luggage.

With each turn of the memory, Victorias resolve deepened. No. She would never seek that woman out or ask her anything; no understanding in the world could undo what had been. As for forgivingshe simply could not.

And with that certainty came a strange, almost physical releaselike shackles falling away.

***

Ive got a surprise! Charles was beaming, his face aglow as if hed won a fortune. He stood in the front hallway, almost dancing on the balls of his feet, itching to unveil whatever he had planned. Youll never guess! Quickly nowno one should be kept waiting!

Victoria paused at the door to the sitting room, a teacup in hand gone cold. She eyed Charles in confusion, then put the cup carefully down. What sort of surprise? And why did some nameless apprehension coil inside her, a thin string pulled tight, ready to snap?

Where are we going? she tried to sound unconcerned.

Youll see! Charless grin widened, seizing her hand and leading her out. Trust me, youll love it.

Victoria allowed herself to be led, but dread twisted in her stomach. She pulled on her coat by rote and followed him outside. During the walk to the park she tried to guess. A music hall show? A meeting with old friends? Nothing seemed likely.

In the park, Victorias gaze landed immediately on a woman sitting on a bench near the avenue. She was plainly but neatly dressed: a dark coat, scarf around her throat, a small bag resting on her knees. Something about her face nagged at Victoria, though she couldnt place itperhaps an acquaintance of Charless, or someone he wanted her to meet?

Charles strode ahead, Victoria trailing and still puzzling over it. As they neared, the woman raised her eyes and smiled faintly. Something fluttered hard inside Victoriashe suddenly saw, superimposed on this strangers face, her own, decades on.

Victoria, Charles announced, as if reading a proclamation to the town square, I have found your mother after a long search. Are you happy?

Victoria stood rooted, the world seeming to hold its breath. How dare he? She had made herself perfectly clearshe did not ever wish to see that woman.

Darling! Youve grown into such a beautiful woman! The woman rushed forward, arms open, her voice trembling, eyes shining genuinely, as though truly glad.

But Victoria recoiled, stepping stiffly away, as if to build more distance.

Its me, your mother! the woman went on, ignoring Victorias coldnessor refusing to see it. Ive searched for you for years! Youve always been in my thoughts, always

It wasnt easy, believe me! Charles added, glowing with pride. It took friends, phone calls, letter-writing, all sorts of things. But I did it for you!

His speech was suddenly cut short by a resounding slap. Victorias hand flashed out by pure instinct, and her eyes filled, brimming with rage and hurt. She stared at Charles, disbelief etched on her faceafter everything, how could he? Hadnt she said more than once that her mother was a closed chapter?

What on earth are you doing? Charles gasped, clutching his cheek, utterly blindsided. I only meant to help! I just wanted to do something good

Victoria said nothing. She couldnther heart boiled with fury and pain. Charles, whom she had trusted with all she was, had pulled out one of her deepest wounds for inspection. Something she had locked away, he had displayed under summer light, all because of his own good intentions.

The woman, standing awkwardly beside them, glanced in confusion between Victoria and Charles. It was clear she was at a loss, wanting to speak, but falling silent at her daughters expression.

I never asked you to find her, Victoria managed at last, her voice measured though her whole being trembled. I told you plainlyI dont want this! Yet you did it anyway!

Charles lowered his hand, aggrieved, but fell silent. He searched Victorias face for any sign that she would rethink, would soften, but saw only steely resolve.

I told you, I dont want to hear about this woman! Victorias voice trembled with suppressed anger. She met Charless eye, her own brimming not just with hurt but something more ancienta deep, gnawing pain. She left me at a railway station when I was fouralone! On a bench, surrounded by strangers! With nothing but a light coat! And you think I should just forgive that?

Charles paled, but did not yield. He stood taller, as if his words could compel her.

Shes your mother. It doesnt matter what she did. A mother is a mother!

At this, the woman stepped forward. Her voice was hesitant, apologetic, as if hoping to explain, though she scarcely believed her own words.

You were poorly often, and I barely had money for medicine, she began, weighing every word. The job was my chance. I would have come back for you, truly. We could have been together again

Victoria turned to her sharply. There was no compassion at all in her eyes, only a hard-won, bone-deep bitterness.

Come back from where? The grave? Her voice was acerbic, but she couldnt hold her tongue. You could have gone to Social Services, signed a temporary guardianship. You could have left me at a hospital if I was ill so often! But not on the street! Not in the cold, not alone!

Charles fumbled for her hand, perhaps trying to calm the storm. He gently closed his fingers around her wristshe jerked away as if scalded, not even glancing at him.

The past is gone. You must live in the present! he pressed, persuading as much himself as her. Didnt you once say you wanted family at our wedding? Now your wish can come true

Victoria stared at him, the disappointment in her eyes enough to make Charles step back.

I invited Mrs. Brown, my old headmistress, and Mrs. Edwards, my foster carer, her voice dropped, but grew stronger. They were my real family! They were there when I needed them most. They supported, taught, and cared for me. Theyve been my parents.

Wrenching her hand free, Victoria turned and fled the park, not looking back. Her feet barely touched the ground as she rushed through the winding paths, past the flowerbeds and benches, away from the conversation, away from the man shed trusted most in the world. A storm raged inside her so fierce it hurt to breathe. She never could have imagined such a betrayal.

Shed hidden nothing from Charlesshe told him everything of her childhood, the loneliness, the months at the childrens home, the nights she hoped her mother might return. Charles had listened, nodded, promised he understood. And yet, hed tracked her down, brought her here. Shes your motherit doesnt matter what shes done. Those words echoed, drawing forth another sharp burst of anger.

Never! Victoria vowed. She would never allow that woman access to her life. Never pretend nothing had happened.

Without slowing her stride, Victoria left the park and walked the streets of London, not caring which way she went. Her mind spun, haunted by the sight of her mothers weary, anxious face, held in an attempted smile. Victoria pressed her fists together, trying to banish the image. All she wanted was to be as far from everything as possible.

She didnt even return to grab her things from Charless flat. Thankfully, she had little therejust a bag or two of clothes and a few personal items. Most of her belongings were still in the council flat shed been allocated after care. It made things easier, anyway. The main thing was to keep away, now, while the pain was fresh and every memory of Charles stung.

Her phone thrummed in her pocketCharles calling again and again. Victoria looked at the screen and saw his name, but ignored it. If she spoke now, she might say anything, something that would burn later with regret. Best to wait till the worst rage passed.

Still Charles persisted. After his calls, the voicemails started. His tone was tight, almost angry.

Victoria, youre acting like a child! I was only trying to help, and you Youre simply ungrateful! This is a tantrum, nothing but a tantrum!

The next was sharper still:

Ive made my decision. Linda is coming to the wedding. End of. I wont be changing plans because of your whims. Well have a proper family, and our children will call her Grandmother. Thats normal, thats right!

Victoria let the messages play out as she stood shivering at the bus stop, feeling herself curl inward. She switched off her phone, shoved it deep into her pocket, and looked skywards. Her whole world felt as if it had cleanly split, and she had no idea how to mend it.

She stared at the phone screen for a long time, rereading Charless last, unbending messages. Linda is coming to the wedding. Full stop. The words hammered at her, denying her even the smallest space to hope for compromise.

She opened her messages, typed a short reply, read it over and over. Clear, simple, unmistakable: “There will be no wedding. I dont wish to see younor her.

She hit send. Watched for the tick mark, confirming it was delivered, then put the phone aside.

Almost instantly, another call flashed upCharles again. Victoria ignored it. A flurry of further messages came through but she didnt read them. Instead, she opened her contact list, found Charless number, and without a shade of hesitation, blocked him.

Her phone lay silentthe calls, the pings, all gone. Quiet surrounded her, wrapping her up like a blanket, bringing a rare sense of peace.

Perhaps she might regret her decision later. Perhaps. But nowright nowit was the only thing that felt right. She could already sense the storm abating, leaving behind a tired, almost crystalline clarity.

She knew this much: there could never be a future with someone who could do such a thing. And that, at last, brought her a kind of peace.

Real Son “Lynn, you won’t believe it! Matty and I have decided—we’re off to Turkey again next year!” My stepdad was beaming. “He says he needs that same hotel with the sea view again. What can I do—he’s my son after all.” He didn’t even realise he’d emphasised *real* son. “I’m happy for you both,” she replied, remembering the happier days before Matty appeared. “Real son… You always told me we were a family, that it didn’t matter who was actually related.” He had. He’d said she was his daughter, no matter what. “Not this again, Lynn! You’re my daughter, no question. You know I love you as if you were my own. But Matty…” He didn’t even realise he’d proved her point. “Matty’s the son. And I’m just someone you know, apparently.” “Lynn, don’t be like that! I told you, to me you’re as good as family!” “As good as… But did you ever take me to the seaside? Not once in fifteen years of being my ‘dad’?” He hadn’t. Arthur loved to claim there was no difference between her and Matty, but Lynn saw how much more he did for his actual son. The difference was enormous. “It was never possible, Lynn. You know money was tight. You’re old enough to know what two weeks in a five-star hotel costs… It’s expensive.” “I get it,” said Lynn. “Too expensive to take me. But Matty—who you only met six months ago—you’re willing to get a mortgage to buy him a flat so he’d have a place for a wife. I suppose that’s a ‘minor’ expense, as long as it’s for your son?” “I’m not buying him a flat, who told you that?” “Nice people.” “Well, tell those nice people to stop spreading rumours.” Lynn perked up a bit. “So, you’re really not?” “Of course not. Oh, guess where we’re going Saturday?” He answered himself: “Go-karting! He used to race a bit at uni, I’m just tagging along.” “Go-karting,” Lynn repeated. “Sounds thrilling.” “Exactly!” “Can I come with you?” The words burst out before she could stop them. Arthur clearly hadn’t wanted her along and stammered, “Uh… Lynn… You’d be bored. Honestly. It’s a… bloke thing. Matty and I need to have a father-son talk.” How much that hurt… “So… it’s fun for you, but not for me?” “Not quite… We just—we never spent any time together, and we’re trying to make up for it. Just us two. I hope you understand.” Understand. That was their new, most cruel phrase. She was supposed to understand that real was more important than adopted, and that she should now know her place outside the fence. Matty, in fairness, was amazing. Grew up without a father—his mum had never told Arthur—yet he’d done so well. Smart, handsome, kind. “Dad, I helped at the shelter today—fixing the dog runs.” “Dad, did you know I got a first-class degree?” “Dad, look, I fixed your phone.” He wasn’t just a son. He was the perfect son. That night, after Arthur had left, Lynn sat sorting through old photos—Arthur’s wedding to her mum (who’d died five years ago, leaving her and Arthur alone). Their holiday at the cottage… Lynn’s graduation photo… Nothing would ever be the same again. *** “Lynn, are you up? Got an urgent question.” Arthur turned up at eight in the morning. “What’s so urgent?” Lynn swept her fringe back with a headband and started the coffee machine. “It’s about Matty’s flat.” “So it’s true after all?” she breathed. “Sorry, but yes… true.” “And you lied to me.” “I didn’t want to upset you. But I need your advice! I really think I should hurry. He’ll want to marry someday, needs a place of his own. I remember what it was like for me…” “Just take out a mortgage,” Lynn muttered, who really did not want to discuss buying Matty a flat. What a cushy deal for Matty. “Yes, yes, I know. But you know my credit score… But Matty needs help. He deserves his dad to buy his very first home.” “And what are you getting at?” “Would you help? If I asked?” “Depends how.” “I’ll explain. I’ve got £20,000 for the deposit, but the bank won’t lend to me. You’d get approved. Your credit’s perfect. We’ll put it in your name, I’ll make all the payments. Promise.” The illusion that “there’s no difference” between them shattered for good. There was. They weren’t putting Matty’s neck on the block. “So Matty gets the flat, I get the debt—is that it?” Arthur shook his head, looking so wounded, it was as if Lynn had made the suggestion. “Don’t talk nonsense! I’ll pay. I’m not asking you to do anything but put it in your name. Think about it…” “You know, Arthur, I’m not even thinking about signing the loan. I’m thinking about how you don’t see me as your daughter anymore. Now you have a son. Known him for half a year, known me for fifteen, but that doesn’t matter—he’s *real*.” “That’s not true!” Arthur flushed. “I love you both equally!” “No. Not equally.” “Lynn, that’s not fair! It’s just—he’s my real son…” Curtain. She was done being his daughter. She was the stand-in, acceptable only until the real thing came along. “Fine,” she said politely. “I can’t, Arthur. I’ll need a place myself one day. Can’t take a second mortgage.” Arthur seemed to just remember she had nowhere herself. “Oh, right, you’ll need one too… But for now, before you want to buy your own place, you could help me. I’ve got most of the money, just need a bit more, only for a few years.” “No. I won’t do it.” She didn’t expect Arthur to understand. “All right,” he said. “If you can’t help me as a daughter… so be it. I’ll sort it some other way.” Whether he’d ever really seen her as his daughter no longer mattered. Now she saw Arthur only in photos. One evening, scrolling through social media, she saw it. A photo at the airport. Arthur and Matty, both in light jackets. Arthur, arm on Matty’s shoulder. Caption: “Off to Dubai with Dad. Family is everything.” Family. Lynn put down her phone. She remembered a moment from her own childhood, before her mum met Arthur. She was five. They had little money, and her favourite doll from Grandma broke. She cried, and her ‘real’ father told her: “Lynn, stop crying over nonsense. Don’t bother me.” You never could bother him. He was only ever interested in his bottle. Really, Lynn never had a dad. And thought Arthur had replaced him… Later, Arthur tried once more to persuade her. “Lynn, I think you’re overthinking this trust issue—” “What trust issue, Arthur? I said no.” “You just don’t get it. Matty grew up without a dad. I need to make it up to him. He’s grown up, needs somewhere to live. I’m not asking much—you just need to sign, I’ll pay every penny.” “Who’ll fix my empty spaces, Arthur…” That got to him. “Lynn, enough! I don’t want an argument. I do love you, that’s true! But you must understand—Matty is my real family now. When you have your own kids, you’ll see. Yes, I love you both, just differently, but you matter.” “Sure. As a tool.” “Lynn, cool off! You’re being dramatic.” “You dropped me the moment he turned up, Arthur. I don’t ask you to choose. There’s nothing to choose. You said it yourself—Matty’s your real son. I never was.” Half a year passed. Arthur never called. Not once. One day, scrolling her feed again, she saw a new photo. Arthur and Matty, standing in front of mountains. Arthur in trendy ski gear. Caption: “Teaching Dad to snowboard! He’s a bit old for it, but with a son—anything’s possible!” Lynn stared at the picture a long time. She turned to her desk to finish her report when a message pinged. Unknown number. “Hi, Lynn. It’s Matty. Dad gave me your number—he can’t ring himself. He’s sorted the flat another way, and he’s worried about you. He really wants you to come for the Bank Holiday. He can’t say why, but it matters.” She drafted a reply, deleting and rewriting several times. “Hi Matty. Tell Arthur I’m really glad for him, I’m thinking of him too. But I won’t be coming. I have other plans for the long weekend. I’m going to the seaside.” She didn’t bother mentioning she’d bought that trip herself, and the beach was in Cornwall, not Turkey—and she was travelling with a friend, not a dad. Lynn hit send. And realised she could still be happy, even without him.

Twelve Years Later — Please, I’m begging you, help me find my son! — The woman’s voice trembled on the verge of tears. — I don’t want anything else in this life! Catherine sat down next to the host on the sofa, wringing her hands theatrically. She’d dressed as modestly as possible and spent a sleepless night before the broadcast to look pale and exhausted. She wanted to appear the image of a suffering mother — someone people would rush to help. — My biggest dream now is to rebuild my relationship with my son, — she whispered, as if each word was a painful effort. — I’ve tried everything I could think of. I went to the police, hoping for help… But they wouldn’t even let me file a report! They told me Adam was an adult, left years ago. They said if I hadn’t cared before, why come now… The host listened, head tilted sympathetically. In truth, he doubted her sincerity. It all seemed far less dramatic than Catherine described. She’d fallen out with her son, ignored him for years, and now suddenly burst in… Still, the show’s ratings relied on stories like this — oh, how people loved these tales. — So, a row with your son led to you being estranged? — he asked calmly, casting glances at the audience. Some looked sceptical, while others genuinely pitied the “unfortunate” mother. Catherine nodded, eyes shining with tears again. She took a deep breath, gathering strength. — Yes, it all started twelve years ago. My son fell desperately in love and was determined to marry. I did understand his feelings, but that girl… She really didn’t sit right with me! I could see exactly how it would end. She smoked, drank, hung around shady places all night… The worst part — she was pulling Adam into it as well! She paused, reliving the memory. The host gave her time to compose herself. — I tried to warn him, to explain it wasn’t the right path. He wouldn’t listen — I was just the overbearing mum refusing to let her son grow up. Then one evening things came to a head. He slammed his fist on the table: “I’m moving out!” Catherine choked up and the host immediately offered her a tissue. She dabbed her eyes, careful not to ruin her makeup. After a moment, she continued: — He left. Packed his things while I was at work. Just vanished — no note, no explanation. Changed his number, cut off everyone: friends, family, all of us. And all because of some girl… Her voice wavered and she closed her eyes, clearly battling her emotions. — Sorry, it’s so hard to keep it together, — she whispered, clutching the tissue. She lowered her head, hair falling forward to partly hide her face — a deliberate gesture, designed to amplify her grief for the cameras. The script called for an outpouring of tears, a display of wounded maternal love. In truth, Catherine didn’t feel even a fraction of the pain she was acting out. Inside, she simply waited — would her performance win the audience’s sympathy? The host saw through her, but played along. — We understand your pain, — he nodded, gesturing for an assistant to bring water. — Take your time, tell us when you’re ready. He let the silence stretch, milking the moment for drama. When the timing was just right, he continued. — Do you know anything about your son now? — he leaned in, feigning concern. Catherine’s gaze held a carefully measured blend of desperation and hope. — A friend spotted him in London recently, — she began, voice trembling — whether genuinely or for effect was hard to say. — She said Adam even changed his surname! How can I find him? I’m powerless alone, please help. Maybe someone watching has seen him? She looked into the camera with the expression of unutterable sorrow she had practised. Her gaze seemed to linger on the lens, intent on reaching the viewers’ hearts. — Recently I was in hospital, — now true worry coloured her voice, — and realised time isn’t on my side. Who knows how long I have? I dream of seeing my son, hugging him, forgiving everything… and asking his forgiveness… A photo appeared on screen: a young man, perhaps twenty. Blonde, blue-grey eyes, tall — good-looking, but unremarkable. Catherine stared; he’d surely changed over the years. Maybe grown a beard or wears glasses now… It felt almost hopeless, but she pushed that thought away. — If anyone’s seen someone matching this young man, please contact our studio — the number’s on your screen, — the host announced solemnly. Filming ended, and as Catherine said goodbye to the crew and left, she kept up the performance all the way to the car park. Outside, her friend — the one who’d encouraged this little act — was waiting. Catherine’s face broke into a careful, satisfied smile. — What do you think? — she asked quietly, with a smirk. — Did I get their sympathy? Tamara, who’d watched the audience the whole show, nodded in triumph. — The women in the studio were in tears! — she gloated. — I’m sure you’ll track down your golden boy now, and get him to cough up a bit for all you invested. Fancy that — he’s living the high life, and gives his mum nothing! Catherine grimaced — her friend’s blunt cynicism was a touch too much, though there was truth in her words. Until recently, Catherine had barely thought of Adam. Only when Tamara bumped into an acquaintance — who’d seen Adam in London — did everything change. The friend described an expensive car, bespoke suit, custom watch… And when Adam exited one of the city’s grandest restaurants, it was clear: money was no object. Catherine’s interest in her son was not in his life, but his wallet. After all, she was his mother! Surely, he owed her — for giving him life. — Don’t worry, we’ll find him, — she repeated, mainly to herself. — Soon enough, and I’ll be set up for life… She was certain Adam wouldn’t risk a public scandal — men of his standing depended on reputation. He’d have to play the perfect son for the cameras. After all this media fuss, he’d have no choice! How naïve she was… She had no idea she’d just stepped right into her own son’s masterful trap. *************************** Twelve Years Ago. Adam came home at nine in the evening, exhausted after his hardest university exam. He just wanted to collapse in bed — but he knew that luxury wasn’t in the cards tonight. He heard voices through the door: a man’s sharp, dissatisfied tone, and a woman’s anxious, explaining one. Him again… Adam bristled. That man always seemed to be around when Adam came home, as if planning it for maximum disruption. He slid his key in, hoping to slip to his room unnoticed, when he tripped over duffel bags by the door. Adam stared. Why were his own suitcases at the entrance? — What’s this? — he called, struggling for calm. — My stuff? What’s going on? His sharp voice silenced the apartment. His mother soon appeared, her face set in a pinched frown. Without a word she turned away, and Adam followed her to the kitchen. There sat Anatole — the man he’d heard. Confident, one arm on a chair and the other nursing tea, Anatole barely glanced up. All focus was on Catherine. Adam gritted his teeth. — What’s he doing here? — he demanded. — You haven’t told him? — Anatole smirked, fiddling with his phone. — And don’t speak about me as if I’m not here! — Adam barked. — I’ve the right to be in this flat. Not like you! Who are you anyway? Why is your son moving in? But his mother finally turned to him, her tone chillingly calm. — From today, you’re not living here anymore. Your old room is for Anatole’s son now. Adam stood, numb. No hint of warmth in her eyes. — Dad was going to leave me the flat… — his voice trailed, searching for hope. Catherine folded her arms, expression briefly mournful. — He died unexpectedly — never changed his will. As it stands, I own this flat. From now on, you’re not allowed here. You’re a grown man — time to cut the apron strings, don’t you think? Every word hurt like a slap. She’d kicked him out — no warning, no discussion. — Any idea where I’ll sleep? — he asked quietly, trying not to let anger boil over. — Oh, you’ll manage, — she replied breezily. — You’ve friends, I’m sure you’ll find somewhere. And by the way, I took the money for your last year of university. You’ll have to earn it yourself now — I need the funds for my own wedding. That hit the hardest. She was ready to cut him off completely. But he would not beg. He began planning then: a job, time off uni, whatever was needed to pay his own way. He nodded, looked at his mother for a glimmer of warmth, but saw only cold resolve. He knew then: he could never forgive her. *************************** — Have you seen it? — Nick leaned over the table, mobile in hand, excitement in his voice. — My mate from back home sent this over. The show just aired. Adam put down his papers, knowing focus was impossible. He smiled wryly. — I’ve seen it, — he replied. — Tamara’s husband couldn’t wait to let my mum know. Which is exactly what I wanted. Let her see what she threw away. He leaned back in his chair, replaying moments from the TV segment: his mother, feigning grief, telling the nation about her “missing” son. Twelve years ago, she’d shown him the door, taken his university money, shut him out. Now, she was desperate to play the doting mother card. But Adam had done well — not with scandal, but quiet success. A new life, a new country, a good job, bright prospects. No thanks to her. Now his mother knew how well he’d done. She might even guess she’d have had support, had she not treated him so cruelly. But she would soon learn the most important thing of all — she’d get nothing. No money, no help, not a word, not a chance at reconciliation. Adam had decided: the past is past. The future is his to make, entirely on his own. The woman who bore him would never reach him. Not now, not ever. And that, above all, is what matters…

My Ex-Wife… Two years ago, as my work assignment was ending and I prepared to return home to Altham, I had three hours to spare after buying my ticket. Wandering the city, I was suddenly approached by a woman I immediately recognised—my first wife, whom I had divorced twelve years earlier. Zina looked much the same, though her face was paler. Our meeting seemed to affect her just as deeply as it did me. I’d loved her intensely—painfully so—which led to our divorce. My jealousy was overwhelming; I suspected her of everyone, even her mother. Whenever she was late, my heart pounded and I felt like I was dying. Eventually, Zina left; she couldn’t stand my constant questioning. I remember coming home from work one day with a puppy to cheer her up, only to find a note on the table. She wrote that although she loved me dearly, my suspicions had worn her down, and she had to leave, begging me not to look for her… Now, after twelve years apart, we met by chance in the city where I was on business. We talked for a long time, and I began to worry about missing my coach home. At last, I said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go or I’ll miss my bus.” Zina asked a favour: “Alex, please, do me this one kindness. I know you’re in a hurry, but for the sake of what we once shared, don’t refuse me. Come with me to an office just for a moment—it’s important, and I can’t go alone.” I agreed, but warned, “Only if it’s quick!” We entered a large building, wandering up and down staircases, moving from one wing to another—it felt like only fifteen minutes. People of every age—from children to the elderly—passed us, but I didn’t wonder why so many, especially children, were in such a place. My attention was fixed on Zina. She finally disappeared behind a door, giving me a look as if saying farewell, and said, “How strange—it seems I could be neither with you, nor without you.” I waited for her to return, wanting to ask what she meant, but she never came back. Suddenly, reality hit: I was running late and still standing there. Glancing around, I panicked. The building was derelict, its windows just gaping holes. There were no stairs—only some planks I had to carefully use to make my way out. I missed my bus by an hour and had to buy a new ticket. When I finally did, I learned the bus I’d missed had crashed into a river and no one survived. Two weeks later, I stood at my former mother-in-law’s door; I’d tracked her down through records. Mrs. Allen told me Zina had died eleven years earlier, just a year after our divorce. I didn’t believe her, thinking she feared I’d resume my jealous pursuit. When I asked to see Zina’s grave, she surprisingly agreed. Hours later, I was at a gravestone, staring at the smiling face of the woman I’d loved all my life—the woman who, in an inexplicable way, had just saved mine.

Anna Parker sat weeping alone on a hospital bench. It was her 70th birthday, yet neither her son nor her daughter had come or called. Only her ward-mate, Mrs. Evans, had wished her happy birthday and given a small gift, and young care assistant Molly brought her an apple. The care home was respectable, but most of the staff were indifferent. Everyone knew this was where the elderly were left by children for whom they had become a burden. Anna’s own son had brought her here, saying it was only for a rest and some treatment, but in truth, she was simply in the way of her daughter-in-law. The flat had been Anna’s, until her son convinced her to sign it over. He promised she could continue living at home, but after the family moved in, arguments began—especially with her daughter-in-law, who seemed always dissatisfied. At first, her son stood by her, but soon even he became irritable. Then one morning, he suggested she should stay in a care home for a bit. Anna looked him in the eye and bitterly asked, “Are you putting me in a nursing home, son?” He blushed and protested, “No, Mum, it’s just a convalescent home. Just for a month, then you’ll be home.” He quickly dropped her off, signed the papers, and left, promising to visit soon. He only came once, bringing two apples and two oranges, and dashed away without even hearing her out. She’s been living here ever since—already two years have passed. After a month, when he still hadn’t come, Anna called her old home only to hear strangers’ voices. It turned out her son had sold the flat, and now she had no idea where he was. She cried for a few nights, but realised tears would not change anything—she would never go home again. The saddest part was that Anna had once deeply hurt her daughter for her son’s sake. Anna grew up in the English countryside, married her school sweetheart Peter, and together they owned a house and small farm. Times weren’t easy, but they never went hungry. But a city friend convinced Peter the city promised a better life with jobs and housing. So they sold everything and moved; the council gave them a flat and they bought a second-hand Mini. But then Peter died in a car crash. Widowed, Anna raised her two children alone, cleaning apartment blocks at night to make ends meet. She hoped her children would help her in old age, but life took a different turn. Her son got into trouble with the law; Anna borrowed money to save him from prison and paid off debt for years. Later, her daughter Dasha married and had a child, but the boy became seriously ill. With her husband gone, Dasha depended on Anna’s help, but Anna had little to spare—she refused to give Dasha the deposit money, saving it for her son instead. The pain of this betrayal lingered; Dasha left, vowing not to return or acknowledge her mother. Twenty years passed with no contact. Dasha’s husband recovered, and they moved with their children to the seaside. Anna often wished she could undo the past—but what’s done is done. Slowly, Anna rose from the bench and turned to return to her room, when suddenly she heard, “Mum!” Her heart leapt as she turned. It was her daughter—Dasha—reaching out to steady her as Anna’s knees buckled. “I finally found you… Your brother wouldn’t give me the address, but I threatened court over the flat he sold illegally—then he caved in…” Together, they sat in the corridor. “Forgive me, Mum, for not speaking for so long. First, I was angry; then ashamed. Last week, I dreamed of you walking and crying in a dark forest. I woke up heavy-hearted and told my husband everything. He told me, ‘Go, make peace.’ I came, but strangers lived at your house. I searched everywhere and finally found you. Now pack your things—you’re coming with me. We have a lovely house by the sea. My husband insisted: if your mother needs you, you bring her home.” Anna hugged her daughter and at last, wept tears of joy. Honour your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land the Lord your God is giving you.

Default Breakup “It’ll all be fine,” Vova whispered quietly, trying to sound confident as he drew a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be tense—how could it be otherwise? Meeting the parents was never easy… The door opened almost at once. On the threshold stood Mrs. Alexandra Peterson. She looked immaculate—her hair styled into a neat chignon, an elegant dress, makeup done just so. Her sharp gaze flickered to Lara, lingered on the basket of biscuits, and her lips tightened—for the briefest instant, but Lara noticed. “Come in,” Mrs. Peterson said coolly, barely stepping aside to let them pass. Vova entered, doing his best not to meet his mother’s eyes, Lara trailing after him, stepping over the threshold with care. The flat greeted them with muted lighting and the woody scent of sandalwood. Everything was cosy, yet almost ostentatiously perfect. No clutter, no stray scarf tossed aside or a forgotten book. Every detail screamed order and control. Mrs. Peterson led them into the sitting room—a spacious place with a large window, heavy cream drapes, an imposing sofa upholstered in expensive fabric, and a low mahogany table. She indicated the sofa with a precision that brooked little argument. “Tea? Coffee?” she asked, still not looking Lara’s way. Her voice was even, emotionless, as if going through social motions rather than being truly welcoming. “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Lara replied politely, striving to sound calm and friendly. She set the basket on the table, undid the ribbon, lifting the lid gently. The smell of fresh biscuits filled the room. “I brought biscuits I baked myself—if you’d like to try.” Mrs. Peterson glanced at the basket, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll bring some tea.” Whilst she was in the kitchen, Vova hunched near Lara and murmured, “Sorry. Mum’s always… like this.” “It’s okay,” Lara smiled, squeezing his hand. “I understand. What matters is that you’re with me.” When Mrs. Peterson returned, she carried a tray with fine bone china teacups, a silver teapot, biscuits neatly arranged on a plate. She poured the tea with care and took her seat, arms folded in her lap, directly opposite her guests. “So, Lara,” she began, her gaze picking over every detail—hair, eyes, how Lara held her cup. “Vova said you’re at university—training to be a nursery teacher, isn’t it?” “I am, yes, I’m in my third year,” Lara replied, steadying the teacup so her hands wouldn’t tremble. “Teaching children is something I genuinely love. Helping them learn and grow means a lot to me.” “With children,” Mrs. Peterson echoed, a hint of irony in her arched brow. “Admirable, I suppose. But you do realise the pay for that work is… modest? These days, one must consider the future, security.” Vova jumped in, a bit more heated than intended: “Mum, must it always be about money? Lara loves what she does. That’s more important. Money will come—we’ll support one another, that’s what matters.” Mrs. Peterson turned her head toward her son, but didn’t reply right away. She sipped her tea, as if weighing every word with care. “Loving your work is wonderful,” she said at last, returning her gaze to Lara. “Still, love alone rarely pays the bills. Have you considered what comes after university? Any plans for your future?” Lara drew a deep breath, gathering her thoughts—she sensed this was more than mere curiosity; it was a test. “Of course I have,” she replied steadily. “I plan to start in a nursery, gain experience, and maybe take courses to work with children with special needs. Challenging, but I feel it’s my calling.” Mrs. Peterson nodded, silent, eyes keenly watchful. “I don’t intend to be a burden on Vova,” Lara added, “I want to work, to be independent, to help build a strong family with more than just financial contributions. It’s important to do work I find fulfilling.” “An interesting perspective,” said Mrs. Peterson, tilting her head slightly. “But with your skills, have you not thought of something more lucrative? Sales, or marketing perhaps—those pay much better.” Vova tried to interject, but a subtle gesture from Lara stopped him. She sensed now was the time to speak up for herself. “And what is it you do?” she asked, surprising both Mrs. Peterson and herself with her firmness. Mrs. Peterson flinched, caught off guard, then collected herself. “I… I don’t work. My husband supports our family. I run the household, assist him in practical matters, keep order. That’s work in its own way—though unpaid.” “I understand,” Lara nodded, resolve growing within her. “So if you chose not to pursue a career for money, why expect me to give up what I love just for higher pay? I’m not asking Vova to provide for me.” A heavy silence settled. Mrs. Peterson stared at Lara, as if reassessing her. “My husband offered me that life. We could afford it, you see. But Vova…” Vova fidgeted uncomfortably at this. He cast his eyes at his mother, whose face remained impassive, and then to Lara, who sat upright, her expression proud but now shadowed by uncertainty. “Lara, you know—” he began haltingly, searching for the right words, his voice catching. “Mum only wants the best for us, you know. She doesn’t want us to face hardships we can avoid.” Lara looked at him in surprise—wasn’t he on her side a moment ago? How quickly his loyalty shifted. It hurt in ways she hadn’t anticipated, right when she most needed him. “So you agree with her, then?” she asked, voice steady but cool. “You think I should abandon my passion, take any job just because it pays more?” “Not exactly… but… Mum has a point: we need to think about the future, stability. We can’t just live for today, right? We need to know how we’ll manage.” Mrs. Peterson now gave Vova a small, approving glance. Then she turned back to Lara, arms still crossed, her tone softening, if only in form: “Tell me, Lara, do you truly believe my son should give up his dreams? After all, he’s always wanted to be a journalist—to travel, write, create. It’s not just a job—it’s who he is. But he’d have to leave that behind to provide for a family, wouldn’t he?” Lara opened her mouth, but Vova spoke first. “Mum, I…” “No, Vova, be honest,” Mrs. Peterson snapped in, not taking her eyes off him. “Are you ready to give up everything you’ve worked for—your dreams, chances to travel, new projects—just for this girl?” Vova stilled, torn. He looked to Lara—her hurt was visible, but she waited, letting him decide. He felt the tug of two versions of himself: one wanted to fight for Lara, the other feared his mother’s logic. “I…” he faltered, then inhaled deeply. “I don’t want to let go of my dreams. But I don’t want to lose Lara, either. I believe we can find a balance; maybe I can pursue journalism, if not as much as before, and Lara will be by my side—as I will, for her.” Mrs. Peterson sighed and shook her head, but said nothing more, reclining in her chair as if to signal she’d said all she meant and would wait for fate’s verdict. “How curious,” Lara said, her voice sharp now, “So Vova can’t give up his dreams, but I must? I’m the one meant to get a high-paid job, while Vova enjoys his life? Doesn’t seem very fair, does it?” Vova lowered his eyes, clutching his teacup tight, his hands trembling so the cup clinked gently against its saucer. Thoughts churned. He found no words to appease them all—mother, Lara, or himself. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to juggle things then…” he mumbled, staring into the cup as if answers hid inside. “Juggle?” his mother scoffed, voice ironclad with certainty. “You can’t have everything. You must decide—career or family. Half-measures don’t work.” Vova swallowed hard, wanting to retort, to say times had changed—that people learn to balance love and work—but her stare reduced him again to a nervous boy, lost for words. “Well then, I think that’s enough for today,” Mrs. Peterson declared, rising with unhurried grace. “It’s getting late, and our neighbourhood gets rough after dark. Lara, it’s best you head home now. Vova—we need to talk. Right now.” No room for discussion—her words were law. “Mum, maybe I should walk Lara to the bus stop—at least—” “Don’t even think about it!” she shot back, not even glancing at him. “I’d be worried. Stay put.” Vova deflated, his shoulders hunched and hands limp. When his mother made up her mind, there was no arguing. “Sorry, Lara,” he mumbled, eyes down. “Best not to upset Mum. I won’t walk you out. You should book a taxi, alright?” Lara nodded. She didn’t argue, didn’t protest. She set her cup down, collected her bag, and rose to her feet. “Alright,” she said with cold calm, though her insides burned with pain and disappointment. “I’m off then.” She stood, smoothed down her jumper, as if that one act could assemble her thoughts. She made no attempt to smile—her smile felt false, irrelevant now. All she wanted was to be gone from this home where every pristine detail screamed she didn’t belong. “Thank you for the tea,” she said politely, her voice edged with chill—a mere formality now, the last word before her exit. “Goodbye,” Mrs. Peterson responded briskly, still not meeting her eye. As if Lara no longer existed. Lara made for the door, step by step, carrying the tension, not hurrying though every muscle screamed to bolt. At the threshold she looked back—Vova sat, head bowed, hands limp in his lap. He never looked up, never tried to stop her, never said a word. That silence told Lara everything. Relief hit her as she stepped out into the cool evening air, though the tangled surge of anger, sadness, resentment wasn’t so easily chased away. Now it was plain: Vova would always be his mother’s boy—never hers. She walked down the street, slow at first, then faster, as if she could outpace her thoughts. But they chased her: “He couldn’t even defend me. Couldn’t say he respected my choice. Pleasing his mother matters more than supporting me.” She barely noticed her quickening pace, her balled fists, choking back tears. Home at last, she shut the door, kicked off her shoes, slumped onto the hallway stool. The quiet cocooned her—and finally, she let herself breathe. The storm inside her eased. This wasn’t the end of the world—just the end of a story that perhaps should never have begun. Lara inhaled, exhaled. Tomorrow, she reminded herself, was a new day. She would cope. ******************* The next day, Lara ignored Vova’s calls. Her phone buzzed repeatedly, but she only glanced at the screen and tucked it away. She needed time—to think, to figure out what she really wanted. Over and over, her mind returned to their last conversation, to his silence, to the way he failed her when it mattered most. For days, she went through the motions: university, assignments, friends, but in a haze. She tried not to think of Vova, but the thoughts crept back: he would always be torn between her and his mother. Every important decision, every little thing, would pass through the filter of Mrs. Peterson’s judgment—a future Lara dreaded. A few days on, heading home from class, Lara spotted a familiar figure by her building. As she neared, she heard her name: “Lara!” She turned. Vova stood by the door, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his jacket. His look was apologetic, but had none of his former assurance. “We need to talk,” he started, not quite meeting her eye. “Mum explained to me…well, she thinks you’re not right for me.” Lara arched a brow, bracing herself for the familiar ache, but her face stayed calm. “And what do you think?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. Vova hesitated, eyes down, shuffling from foot to foot. He seemed to be searching for words that never came. “Well… she’s my mum,” he said at length, with a nervous shrug. “She just wants the best for me. I don’t want to upset her.” No strength or conviction in his tone—no explanation, just an excuse. Lara watched him, trying to see if he meant it or simply couldn’t face the truth. “So you agree with her?” she pressed, but she already knew. “I’m not saying I agree—” he blurted, meeting her gaze, “But she’s family. I can’t just turn away from her.” He fell silent, as if waiting for Lara to patch things herself, to find some solution. But she was in no rush—her mind was already moving on: “What if he never changes? What if he’ll always put his mum first? I’ll never be anything but second.” “Do you want to be with me?” she asked, quietly, directly. He stalled again. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead, he only sighed, shoulders slumping, as if conceding he couldn’t give her what she needed. Lara nodded—a gesture more for herself than for him. She didn’t argue or ask for explanations. She just turned and entered the building, leaving Vova staring after her. He watched her disappear through the doors, feeling oddly hollow, unsure if he’d said what he really meant. That evening, Lara went for a walk. The street was quiet, lamplight spilling over wet pavements. The air was autumnal—leaves, rain, something fresh and free. She walked with no destination, letting her feet set the pace. Suddenly, she laughed. The sound was light, almost flippant, surprising her as much as anyone. She stopped, watching far-off lights flicker, and it struck her: trouble might lie ahead, but she was ready for it. Because now she knew—she didn’t need to twist for someone else, or explain herself, or prove her worth. She was free. And that was all that mattered.