There’s Still Work to Do at Home… Granny Val struggled to open the garden gate, hobbled to the door, wrestled with the old, rusted lock, then stepped into her chilly, empty cottage and sank onto a chair beside the cold hearth. The house felt abandoned. She’d only been away three months, but cobwebs now draped the ceilings, the ancient chair creaked mournfully, and the wind howled down the chimney—the house greeted her crossly: Where’ve you been, mistress? Who did you leave us with? How will we manage through winter? “I’m here now, my dear—just let me catch my breath…and soon I’ll have us warmed up again.” Just a year ago, Granny Val bustled about the old cottage—whitewashing, tidying, fetching water; her slight, nimble figure bowed before icons, busied at the stove, and flitted through the orchard to plant, weed, and water everything. The house rejoiced with her, the floorboards creaking under her light steps, doors and windows flinging open at a touch of her work-roughened hands, and the old range baking gloriously plump pies. Val and her cottage were happy together. She’d buried her husband early, raised three children—educated them all and sent them out into the world. One son captained a freighter, another became an Army Colonel, both living far off and rarely visiting. The youngest, her daughter Maureen, stayed in the village as head agronomist, always busy, stopping in on Sundays with fresh pies to nourish her mother’s soul—then another week passed with no visits. Her comfort was her granddaughter, sweet Susie, practically raised at Gran’s knee. And what a beauty Susie grew up to be! Big grey eyes, masses of golden hair tumbling to her waist, as bright as polished wheat—just blinding the local lads with her looks and polished posture, rare for a country girl. Granny Val had been attractive in her day too, but if you put an old photo of her beside Susie’s, you’d see a shepherd girl and a queen. On top of that, Susie was clever—she’d finished Agricultural College in the nearest city, returned to work in the local council office as an accountant, and married the village vet. The young couple were awarded a brand-new house through a government programme—a solid, handsome brick place, practically a mansion by village standards. There was only one thing: While Gran’s old cottage was surrounded by a lush, flower-filled garden, Susie’s new house boasted just three scraggly plants. Susie, despite being raised in the country, wasn’t suited for gardening—her granny had always protected her from drafts and hard work. Then Susie had little Jack, and there was simply no time for gardening at all. Susie began inviting Gran to live with her: “Come live with us, Gran—it’s a big, warm house. No more tending fires!” Turning eighty, Gran finally relented—her legs, once so spry, now tired and unreliable, as if the years had been waiting for this milestone to catch up with her. She spent a few months at Susie’s, but soon heard: “Gran, I love you, you know that, but why are you just sitting here? You’ve always been up and about, keeping house, and here you are, just… settled. I was hoping for your help since I want to start managing my own home.” “But my dear, I can’t—my legs don’t work now, I’m old…” “Hmph. Funny, you suddenly got old when you moved in with me.” In the end, Gran, unable to fulfil their hopes, was gently sent back to her own cottage. Her disappointment in failing Susie weighed heavily—she struggled to cross from bed to table, let alone to her beloved church. Father Brian, her faithful parish priest, began coming to her, helping with chores, bringing food, chopping firewood, and checking on her well-being. He even wrote addresses on the envelopes when her shaky handwriting failed her. The letters to her sons always boasted in bold, trembling script, “I’m doing very well, my dear sons. God has blessed me with everything!” Yet the ink stains betrayed her tears. Neighbours tried to help, and Maureen, still tirelessly working as village agronomist, did what she could, but soon tragedy struck—Susie, who’d had stomach trouble, was diagnosed with untreatable lung cancer. Within six months, she was gone. Her husband became lost in grief, and four-year-old Jack was left uncared for—hungry and unwashed. Maureen took him in, but her demanding work left her little time, and soon social services began discussing sending Jack to a residential school. Refusing to let this happen, Granny Val arrived, ferried by her burly neighbour Pete on his old motorbike with sidecar: “I’ll take Jack to live with me.” “But Mum, you can barely walk! How will you cope with a child?” “As long as I’m alive, Jack isn’t going to any institution,” Gran said firmly. Even the neighbours were shocked: “She must be losing her mind—she can barely manage herself, and now she’s taken on a child!” Father Brian feared the worst when he visited—but found Jack clean and smiling, listening to fairy tales on Gran’s ancient record player, and Granny Val bustling happily around the kitchen, baking cheese pastries, her old legs moving nimbly once again. “Wait a tick, Father—I’ve just got some pastries in the oven for Mrs Alexander and young Tommy…” Father Brian returned home, amazed and shared the story with his wife, who pulled out a family notebook and read him an old story of her great-grandmother: bedridden and near death, she found new life when a newborn great-grandchild arrived in the house and postponed dying for another decade just to help raise her beloved great-granddaughter. And, as she finished the tale, Mrs Alexander smiled at her husband and said, “It’s just as the old song goes: ‘It’s not time to die yet—we’ve still got things to do at home!’”

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 1

You know, there are always things to take care of at home

Gran Violet fumbled with the garden gate, just about managed to get the rusty old latch open, then hobbled up to the front door. She spent ages fiddling with the stiff, half-rusted lock before finally stepping into her chilly, untouched cottage, where she collapsed onto a rickety chair by the cold fireplace.

You could smell that the place hadnt been lived in for a while. Shed only been away three months, but the ceilings had already become heavy with cobwebs, the old wooden chair groaned beneath her, and the wind howled down the chimney, as if the house was cross with her for leaving it behindWhere have you been then, lass? Whom did you leave me with? How are we meant to make it through winter?

All right, my lovely, all right, Violet murmured, Just let me catch my breath, then Ill get the fire going and well soon be toasty

Only last year, Gran Violet would whiz around the old cottage without stopping: giving the kitchen a fresh lick of whitewash, bringing in buckets of water, fluttering like a bird about the garden, managing to plant, weed, and water all in one day. Shed bow before her old family photos, then dart to the oven to create the most scrumptious pies youve ever tasted.

And the house seemed to come alive with hersqueaky floorboards joined in the fun beneath her quick, light steps; doors and windows swung open at the first touch of her little, careworn hands; the old oven worked overtime baking loaf after loaf. House and Violet, a perfect team.

She lost her husband too soon, but was strong enough to raise three children on her own, saw that they all got an education, and sent them off into the world. One son became a ship captainsailing round half the world, the other joined the Army and made it to colonel; both lived far away and couldnt visit often.

Only her youngest, Alice, stayed in the village. She was the head gardener at the big farm and spent every hour of daylight working. She popped in on Sundays, shared a pot of tea and a few slices of pie, then you wouldnt see her again for another week.

Gran Violets pride and joy was her granddaughter Molly. You could say Molly was raised by her gran. And she turned out a real stunnerhuge grey eyes, thick curls the colour of wheat spilling down her back, a figure to turn every lads head when she walked by in the village square. Even the lads would stop mid-conversation, jaws on the floor. Where did a village girl get poise like that, and such beauty, too? Gran Violet had been a pretty thing herself, but if you compared the old photos, it was shepherdess versus queen.

Clever, to boot. Molly studied in the cityagricultural management, can you believeand came back to the very village to work as an accountant. She married Ollie, a village vet, and thanks to a starter home programme for young couples, the two landed a brand-new brick house. Quite the place for the timelooked more like a small manor than a house.

Only trouble was, Gran Violets cottage was surrounded by old apple and cherry trees, everything in full bloom, every border overflowing with flowers. Mollys new place? Well, no time for a proper gardena couple of straggly rose bushes and not much else. If were honest, Mollydear as she wasnever had the greenest of thumbs, and with a new baby, little Danny, on the go, gardening wasnt exactly top priority.

Soon, Molly started gently pestering her gran to move in: Come on, Gran, youd be so much more comfortable in our house, weve got central heating, you wont have to fuss with fires Its warm and modern, youll love it! Violet, now eighty, wasnt getting about as easily as before; her legs werent cooperating and the appeal of a warm home grew stronger by the day. She gave in and tried Molly’s way.

A couple of months in, though, Violet overheard her granddaughter talking to her: Gran, I love having you herehonest, I do! But arent you getting bored? Youve always been up and about, doing, making! And I could use a bit of help, you know? I was hoping youd manage the house while Im working

Oh, love, wish I could, sighed Violet, My poor legs they just dont work like they used to. Ive no strength, Im afraid.

Funny, responded Molly, a touch sharp, since you came to live here, you got old all of a sudden

So, before long, Gran Violet realised she couldnt meet Mollys expectations, packed her bag, and returned to her old cottage. The worry of failing her favourite granddaughter weighed heavy, and she slid into a proper spell of gloomthe sort of tiredness in your bones you cant shake. Just getting from bed to kitchen was a slog, popping down to her beloved churchwell, that was out of the question.

Father Benjamin, knowing his staple parishioner was struggling, decided to pop by himself. He glanced around with that gentle, understanding eye of his.

There sat Violet, scribbling her monthly letters to her sons. It was chillythe fire barely more than a whisper. She was bundled in a faded cardigan and a well-worn scarfhardly the look of someone who was once the neatest housekeeper in the countyand battered old slippers covered her feet.

Father Benjamin gave a heavy sighshe needed a hand. Maybe Anna, who lived nearby and was a solid twenty years younger than Violet, could help?

Hed come equippedfresh loaf, some ginger biscuits, half a still-warm fish pie (thanks from his wife, Mrs. Alexandra!). He rolled up his sleeves, swept out the ashes, brought in a barrow-load of logs, got the fire blazing, hauled water, and put a battered old kettle onto the stove.

Oh, my dear boy! Sorrydear Father, would you help me with these addresses? My scribble wouldnt make it through the post!

Father Benjamin smiled, sat down, wrote out the addresses, glanced over Violets lettersall scrawled in large, shaky handwriting. Im doing wonderfully, dearest boy, I have everything I need, thank God! But the pages were blotted with smudges, and those, he knew, were tears.

Anna soon took Violet under her wing; Father Benjamin popped by to give the old lady communion and a chat, and Annas husbandold sailor Petedrove Violet to church on his motorbike for big holidays. Life, slowly but surely, began to settle again.

Molly stopped coming by, and not long later, she fell gravely ill. Turns out shed had stomach trouble for ages, always shrugging it off, thinking it was nothing. But when she was finally checked, it was lung cancer. Hard as it is to say, six months later, Molly was gone.

Her husband simply lost himselfcamped out at her grave with a bottle, spent his days and nights there till it ran dry, then started again. Their four-year-old son, Danny, became a child no one quite knew what to do withdirty, hungry, nose always running.

Alice took Danny in, but work kept her late most nights. Danny was next in line for the local childrens homea decent enough place, with keen staff and hearty meals, children could come home for weekends, but it wasnt a family.

Alice had no way around itwork was pressing, pension years too far ahead. Then, one blustery day, Violet arrived at her daughters house in old Petes sidecar. Pete sat at the controls, arms decorated in anchor tattoos, looking every bit the old sailor. Both looked set for battle.

Ill take Danny to live with me, Violet announced.

Mum, you can barely walk yourself! How will you manage? He needs food, clothes, someone to keep him clean!

As long as I live, Danny wont go to an orphanage, Violet declared simply.

Alice, floored by her mothers resolve, fell silent and started gathering Dannys things.

Pete drove the old lady and her great-grandson back to the cottage, all the way up the lane, then practically carried them inside. The neighbours shook their heads:

Kind old soul, but shes clearly gone round the bendshe needs looking after herself, and now takes on a child? This isnt a stray dogits a real boy, he needs love and attention! Whats Alice thinking?

Father Benjamin paid a visit after Sunday service, dreading hed have to whisk a starving, neglected Danny off to care. But the cottage was warm, fire roaring, and there was little Danny, clean and bright-eyed, sitting on the sofa listening to a fairy tale on Grans ancient record player.

Violet, whom people thought too frail to walk, was bustling about the kitchengreasing tins, kneading dough, breaking eggs into cottage cheeseand her old legs carried her with a surprising spring, just like in her younger days.

Father! Ive just baked some cheese buns Hang on a sec and Ill pack a couple for Mrs. Alexandra and little Kieran

Father Benjamin got home, still blinking with surprise, and shared the story with his wife.

Mrs. Alexandra paused, then pulled a thick blue journal from the bookshelf and skimmed through the pages till she found what she was looking for:

“My old Great Gran, Agatha, had lived a long life. All her dreams, emotions, and hopes long buried under the snow outside. One wintry February evening, Agatha prayed for hours, then set herself on the bed and announced, Call for the vicarI think Im about to go.

Her face was pale as the drifts outside. The family fetched the local vicar, Agatha took confession and communion, and then lay there, quietly, no food, no drink, for a whole day and night. It seemed only the faintest breath kept her spirit in her tired body.

Just then, the front door banged open with a gust of cold airand a babys cry. Hush, hush, Grans passing away in here! Im sorry, I cant tell a baby not to cryshe doesnt yet know its not allowed

Her granddaughter Nancy had just come home from the hospital with her new baby. Everyone else was at work, leaving Gran and new mum alone. Nancy, still finding her feet with the little one, had no milk yet and couldnt calm her, so the baby wailed and wailed, right as Agatha tried to slip away.

Suddenly Agatha lifted her head, her hazy gaze sharpened, and she somehow swung her old legs over the side of the bed, feeling around for her slippers. When the family arrived home, braced to say goodbye, they found Agatha not only alive and well, but standing tall, rocking the silent, contented baby, while Nancy had her feet up on the sofa.

Agatha had simply changed her mindsaid, Its too soon for me to go, Ive got things left to do, and sang the old tune: It isnt my time to die yettheres still work to do at home! She went on to live another ten years, helping my mum, your mother-in-law Olive, raise me, her favourite great-grandchild.

Mrs. Alexandra closed the journal, smiled at her husband, and finished, My Great Gran loved me so much, she simply couldnt allow herself to die. She had work left to do at home.

And old Father Benjamin grinned, just as warmly, at his wife.

The Anniversary Invitation Was a Trap… But the Gift I Brought Changed Everything When I received the invitation, I read it twice, then a third time—almost as if the words might reshape themselves to reveal the real story. “Wedding Anniversary. We would be delighted if you could join us.” So polite. So polished. So… not her style at all. I’ve never had trouble being a guest at someone else’s celebration—even when their happiness is built on top of my silence. Yes, I knew the man by her side tonight once stood beside me. But no, I didn’t feel humiliated by being ‘replaced’. You can’t replace a woman—you simply leave one version of yourself behind and choose another. But the reason the invitation unsettled me wasn’t the past. It was the tone. As if someone was inviting me, not as a friend… but as a member of the audience. Yet I accepted. Not to prove anything, but because I wasn’t afraid. I am the kind of woman who doesn’t walk into a room to compete with other women. I walk in to reclaim my own space. It took me time to prepare, but not because of my dress. Because of my decision of how I wanted to look in their eyes. I didn’t want to be ‘the wounded one’. I didn’t want to be ‘the proud one’ either. I wanted to be just right—the kind of woman no one can use as the backdrop for their self-assurance. I chose a champagne-coloured dress—simple, without unnecessary embellishment. My hair was swept up—not playfully, but confidently. My makeup was soft, natural. I looked in the mirror and told myself: “Tonight, you are not here to defend yourself. Tonight, you’re here to observe.” When I entered the hall, the light was warm—chandeliers everywhere, laughter, glass after glass clinking. There was music that made people smile, even if they weren’t happy. She saw me instantly. She couldn’t not. Her eyes narrowed for a split second, then widened—rehearsed joy, dressed up as ‘good manners’. She approached, glass in hand. She kissed my cheek lightly, but didn’t truly touch my skin. ‘What a surprise to see you!’ she said, a little too loudly. I knew the game. When you say something just loud enough, you want everyone to hear how ‘gracious’ you are. I smiled softly. ‘You invited me. So I came.’ She gestured toward a table. ‘Come with me, I’ll introduce you to a few people.’ That’s when I saw him. He was standing by the bar, laughing with two men—laughing the way he used to, back when he could still be gentle. For a moment, my heart reminded me it has a memory. But I had something stronger than memory: Clarity. He turned. His gaze landed on me, as if a curtain had been pulled aside. No guilt. No courage—just that awkward recognition: ‘She’s here. She’s real.’ He walked over. ‘Glad you made it,’ he said. Not ‘sorry’. Not ‘how are you’. Just a sentence for the sake of manners. His wife jumped in immediately: ‘I insisted!’ she smiled. ‘You know me—I’m all about… grand gestures.’ Grand gestures. Yes. She loved putting on a show. Loved looking good. Loved being at the centre. And above all, she loved proving “there’s no problem”. I said nothing. Just looked at them and nodded. They sat me at a table close to theirs—just as I expected. Not far, not comfortably—on display. Around me, people laughed, toasted, took endless photos, while she—she floated around like the perfect hostess from a magazine. Sometimes her eyes flicked to me, as if checking whether I was crumbling. I didn’t crumble. I’m a woman who has survived quiet storms. After you’ve walked through them, loud people start to seem… silly. Then came the moment she had orchestrated. The MC stepped onto the stage, telling everyone how ‘strong the couple was’, ‘how inspiring their love is’, and how it’s ‘proof that true relationships conquer all’. Then, in front of everyone, she took the microphone. ‘I’d like to say something special,’ she declared. ‘Tonight, someone very important is here… because some people teach us to truly appreciate love.’ Eyes turned to me. Not everyone knew the story, but everyone sensed this was THAT moment. She smiled sweetly. ‘I’m so happy you’re here.’ I heard them whisper—like needles, exactly what she wanted. She wanted to set me up as ‘the past’, sitting meekly, clapping for the present. Her husband stood there like a statue. He didn’t even look at me. And then I stood up. No performance. No theatrics. I simply and calmly stood, straightened my dress and took a small gift box from my bag. The room hushed, not from fear, but from curiosity. People adore other people’s tension. I approached them. She was ready—expecting some polite, pitiful sentiment: ‘I wish you happiness’ and ‘all the best’. She wasn’t going to get that. I took the microphone, but didn’t clutch it tightly. I held it the way you hold truth: gently. ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I said quietly. ‘Sometimes, it is brave to invite the past to your celebration.’ She smiled nervously. The audience shifted in their seats. ‘I brought a gift,’ I continued, ‘and I won’t keep you long.’ I handed the box to her. Directly to her. Her eyes lit up—not with joy, but with suspicion. She opened it. Inside was a small black USB stick and a folded sheet of paper. Her face froze. ‘What is this…?’ she tried to ask, her voice thinner than before. ‘A memory,’ I said. ‘A very precious one.’ He stepped forward. I saw his jaw clench. She unfolded the note. She read, and colour slowly drained from her cheeks. There was no need for me to shout the truth. It wrote itself across her face. Because the note held a short message—not long, but precise. Extracts of conversations. Dates. A few facts. Nothing crude. Nothing low. Just the truth. And a single sentence at the end: ‘Keep this anniversary as a mirror. In it, you’ll see how it all began.’ People could feel it—nothing is louder than suspicion in a room full of luxury. She tried to smile. Tried to joke. But her lips trembled. I looked at her calmly. Not like an enemy. Like a woman who simply reached the end of a lie. Then I turned to him. ‘I won’t say more,’ I said. ‘Just this: I wish you could be honest, just once. If not with anyone else… then at least with yourself.’ He was struggling to breathe. I knew him. When you corner him, he shrinks. The crowd wanted a spectacle, but I didn’t give them one. I handed the microphone back to the host. Smiled softly and nodded my head. And walked toward the exit. I could hear chairs moving behind me. Someone asking, ‘What just happened?’ Someone else saying, ‘Did you see her face?’ But I didn’t turn. Not because I didn’t care. But because I wasn’t there to fight anymore. I was there to close a door. Outside, the air was cold and pure, like the truth after a long lie. I glimpsed my reflection in the entrance glass. I didn’t look like a loud victor. I looked… at peace. And for the first time in a long time, I felt not hatred, nor sadness, nor jealousy— I felt free. My gift wasn’t revenge. It was a reminder— that some women don’t shout. Some women simply walk in, lay the truth on the table, and leave like queens. ❓What would you have done in my place—would you have kept quiet ‘for the sake of peace’, or let the truth do the talking?

“YOU’RE TOO LATE, MARINA! THE PLANE’S GONE! AND WITH IT, YOUR JOB AND YOUR BONUS! YOU’RE FIRED!” — HER BOSS SHOUTED DOWN THE PHONE. MARINA STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF A TRAFFIC JAM, STARING AT THE OVERTURNED CAR SHE’D JUST PULLED A STRANGER’S CHILD FROM. SHE LOST HER CAREER, BUT FOUND HERSELF. Marina was the model corporate high-flyer—a regional director at 35, tough, efficient, always on call, her life scheduled to the minute in her Google calendar. That morning was the biggest deal of her year—a contract with a Chinese firm. She needed to be at the airport by 10:00. Leaving with time to spare (she was never late), she sped down the motorway in her new SUV, rehearsing her pitch. Suddenly, a battered old Ford ahead skidded, hit the verge, and tumbled into a ditch, landing wheels-up. Marina slammed on the brakes—calculating instantly: “If I stop, I’ll be late. Millions on the line. They’ll destroy me.” Other drivers slowed, took photos, drove on. She checked her watch—8:45. Time slipping away. Foot on the accelerator, she almost swerved round the forming jam, when she saw a child’s gloved hand pressed to the window of the upturned car. Marina cursed, hit the wheel, and pulled onto the shoulder. Running through the snow in stilettos, the smell of petrol filled the air. The driver—a young man—was unconscious, head bloody. In back, a five-year-old girl trapped and sobbing. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart!” Marina shouted, yanking at the jammed door. When it wouldn’t budge, she smashed the window with a stone, glass nicking her face, scratching her designer coat. She pulled the girl free, then—with help—got the driver out just before the car ignited. Shaken, tights torn, hands trembling and face covered in soot, she sat in the snow, clutching the girl. Her boss’s number flashed again. “Where are you?! Check-in closes in minutes!” “I can’t make it, Mr. Harrison. There’s been an accident. I was helping survivors.” “I don’t care! You’ve blown the deal! You’re finished! Out of the industry, do you hear!” She hung up. The ambulance arrived. The paramedic said, “They’ll live. You’re their guardian angel—without you, they’d have burned.” The next day, Marina woke up jobless. Her boss had kept his word—besides firing her, he blacklisted her in their tight-knit field. Doors kept slamming. She slid into depression, financial pressure mounting. “Why did I stop?” she wondered each night. “If I’d just driven on, I’d be in Shanghai sipping champagne. Now I have nothing.” A month later her phone rang—an unknown number. “Marina? It’s Andrew—the man from the Ford. You saved us. Please, we’d like to see you.” Visiting their council flat, Andrew (in a back brace), his teary wife, and their daughter Dasha (with a crooked angel drawing for Marina, black hair just like hers) offered her all they had: tea and gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Andrew said. “We’ve no money… but if you ever need anything…” “I need a job,” Marina admitted ruefully. Andrew had an idea—his mate, a quirky Yorkshire farmer, was looking for a manager—not mucking out barns, but sorting paperwork, grants, logistics. Modest wages, room included. Desperate, Marina went to see. Gone were the marble desks and Armani suits—just a battered desk, jeans, and wellies. She got to work—streamlining systems, securing subsidies, finding new markets. Within a year, the farm turned a profit. And she discovered a new peace—fresh bread, a loyal dog, no more layers of fake makeup or backstabbing games. For the first time, she felt alive. One day, a city delegation came to source farm produce for top restaurants—her former boss among them. He barely concealed his scorn, sneering at her weathered face and old jeans. “Well, Marina? Queen of muck, are we? You could have stayed on the board. Regret playing the hero?” She smiled, feeling nothing but indifference. “No, Victor. I saved two lives that day—and a third: my own. I saved myself from ever becoming you.” He harrumphed and left. She headed to the barn to greet a newborn calf, its nose nuzzling her palm. That evening—barbeque with Andrew, Lena, and Dasha—now close friends. Under vast stars invisible in the city, Marina knew she was finally where she belonged. Moral: Sometimes, losing everything is how you find what really matters. Career, money, status—they can all go up in smoke in an instant. But compassion, a life saved, and a clear conscience stay with you forever. Don’t be afraid to change course when your heart says “stop”—it might just be your true turning point.