This Is Exactly What I Did When I Found Two Cruise Vouchers in My Husband’s Pocket—And One Had Another Woman’s Name On It

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

That is just what I did, back in the day, when I came across two vouchers for a sea cruise in the pocket of my husband. One of those held the name of another woman, plain as day.

I first met my husband, John, at the old bus stop on High Street. That evening, quite by chance, I lost my house keys as I was fishing out my purse. It was already dark, and I struggled to find them in the gloom. John helped me search and, eventually, we found them together. I thanked him sincerely. As it so happened, we needed to board the same bus.

John accompanied me home that night, and so began our courtship. Six months down the line, we were wed. John always insisted it was love at first sight. Our wedded life was harmonious, and three blissful years drifted by. Then John landed a new position at a prestigious firm, and I soon noticed small changes in him. Yet, I kept silent, thinking perhaps it was all in my head. That is, until one day, John told me he was to be away for a fortnight on business.

He had just stepped into the shower when I decided to wash his trousers. In his pocket, I found two tickets for a cruise. Strangely, one bore the name of a young woman unknown to me. In that moment, I realised he had betrayed mecrushed my trust as well as my affection.

I was furious with John and resolved to get my own back. The pain ran deep, for I truly loved and trusted him. I said nothing to John. Instead, I rang my old school friend, Davidalways a good confidantand confided in him, asking for help. Together, David and I made plans to visit the very spot John had chosen for his illicit tryst. At the harbour, we put on a fine show, pretending to be sweethearts, laughing and holding hands.

As luck would have it, John spotted us straight away. He stormed over, accusing me of having an affair. I looked him square in the eye and retorted, You thought you could betray me and I would simply accept it? Well, I didnt waste a moment finding someone to take your place!

Standing nearby was Charlotte, Johns paramour. She was visibly shocked. Apparently, John had never told her that he was a married man. It turned out he had deceived not just me, but her as well. The truth was laid bare for all to see, and it was not long before John and I went our separate ways. I could not forgive such an act of betrayal.

Six months later, I married David, and to this day, I am truly happy with him. Charlotte, too, parted company with John; she could never forgive him for keeping such an important secret from her. It all seems so long ago now, but I still remember how much it hurt and how, with time, happiness found its way back to me.

“I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Whispered Nick. “Do You Understand? I Just Couldn’t. Nick Was Fourteen, And It Felt Like The Whole World Was Against Him—Or At Least No One Wanted To Understand Him. “Here Comes That Troublemaker Again!” Grumbled Auntie Clare From Number Three As She Hurried Across The Estate. “Raised By A Single Mum—And Here’s The Result!” Nick Walked Past, Hands Stuffed In The Pockets Of His Ripped Jeans, Pretending Not To Hear—But He Heard. His Mum Was Working Late Again. On The Kitchen Table: A Note—“Meatballs In The Fridge, Heat Them Up.” And Silence. Always Silence. He Was Coming Home From School, Where The Teachers Had Yet Another “Talk” About His Behaviour. As If He Didn’t Know He Was The Problem Child. Oh, He Knew. But So What? Suddenly Uncle Victor, The Neighbour From Downstairs, Called Out: “Oi, Kid! You Seen A Lame Dog Around Here? We Should Chase Him Off.” Nick Paused And Looked Closer. Near The Wheelie Bins, Sure Enough, Lay A Dog. Not A Puppy—A Full-Grown One, Ginger With White Patches. He Lay Still, Watching People With Intelligent—And Sad—Eyes. “Somebody Shove Him Off!” Added Auntie Clare. “He’s Probably Sick!” Nick Walked Over. The Dog Didn’t Move, Just Wagged His Tail Weakly. There Was A Ragged Wound On His Hind Leg, Dried Blood Crusted Over. “What Are You Stopping For?” Victor Snapped. “Grab A Stick, Get Rid Of Him!” And Something Inside Nick Finally Gave Way. “Just You Dare Touch Him!” He Shouted, Standing Between Them. “He’s Not Hurting Anyone!” “So We’ve Got A Defender, Have We?” Victor Chuckled. “And I’ll Keep Defending Him!” Nick Squatted Down, Stretching Out A Hand To The Dog. The Dog Sniffed His Fingers And Gently Licked His Palm. Nick Suddenly Felt Something Warm Spread Through His Chest. For The First Time In Ages, Someone Was Kind To Him. “Come On,” He Whispered To The Dog. “Come Home With Me.” At Home, Nick Made A Bed For The Dog Out Of Old Jackets In The Corner Of His Room. Mum Wouldn’t Be Home Till Evening—So No One Would Shout And Chuck Out The “Pest.” The Wound Looked Bad. Nick Dug Around Online For First Aid Guides For Animals, Frowning At The Medical Words But Memorising Them All. “I Need To Clean It With Peroxide,” He Muttered, Searching The Medicine Cabinet. “Then Dab The Edges With Iodine. Carefully, So It Won’t Hurt.” The Dog Lay Quietly, Trusting, Offering His Injured Leg. He Looked At Nick With Thanks—The Way No One Had For A Long Time. “What’s Your Name?” Nick Whispered As He Wrapped The Leg. “Ginger? Shall I Call You Ginger?” The Dog Barked Softly—Almost Like He Was Agreeing. That Evening, Mum Came Home. Nick Braced For Trouble, But Mum Quietly Inspected Ginger And The Bandages. “You Dressed The Wound Yourself?” She Asked Quietly. “Yes. I Looked Up How To Do It.” “What Will You Feed Him?” “I’ll Think Of Something.” Mum Looked From Her Son To The Dog, Who Was Licking Her Hand Gently. “We’ll Go To The Vet Tomorrow,” She Said. “See About His Leg. Got A Name Yet?” “Ginger,” Nick Answered, Beaming. For The First Time In Months, There Was No Wall Between Them. The Next Morning Nick Got Up An Hour Early. Ginger Tried To Stand, Whimpering With Pain. “Lie Down,” Nick Soothed. “I’ll Get You Some Water. And Food.” No Dog Food At Home. So Nick Gave Him The Last Meatball, Softened Some Bread In Milk. Ginger Ate Eagerly, But Carefully, Savoring Every Crumb. At School, Nick Didn’t Snarl At Teachers For Once. He Was Thinking Only Of Ginger—Was He Okay? Did His Leg Hurt? Was He Lonely? “You Seem Different Today,” His Form Tutor Remarked. Nick Just Shrugged. He Didn’t Want To Explain—They’d Only Laugh. After School, He Rushed Home, Ignoring Neighbours’ Disapproving Looks. Ginger Greeted Him With A Joyful Yip—He Could Stand On Three Legs Now. “Want To Go Outside, Mate?” Nick Made A Lead Out Of Rope. “Easy Now—Look After Your Leg.” Something Was Changing In The Block. Auntie Clare Nearly Choked On Her Sunflower Seeds When She Saw Them. “He’s Taken That Dog Into His Flat! Nick—you’ve Lost Your Mind!” “What’s So Bad?” Nick Replied Calmly. “I’m Helping Him Heal. He’ll Be Fine Soon.” “You’re Healing Him?” Clare Approached. “And Where Do You Get Money For Medicine? Steal It From Your Mum?” Nick Clenched His Fists, But Held Back. Ginger Pressed Close To Him—Feeling The Tension. “I Don’t Steal. I Spend My Own. I’ve Been Saving My Breakfast Money,” He Said Quietly. Victor Shook His Head: “You Realise He’s Alive, Yeah? Not A Toy. You’ll Need To Feed Him, Treat Him, Walk Him.” Each Day Now Started With A Walk. Ginger Got Better Quickly—Soon He Was Jogging, Though He Still Limped. Nick Taught Him Tricks—Patiently, For Hours. “Sit! Good Boy! Give Paw! That’s It!” Neighbours Watched From Afar. Some Shook Their Heads. Some Smiled. But Nick Noticed Nothing But Ginger’s Loyal Eyes. He Changed. Not All At Once—Bit By Bit. He Stopped Being Rude, Started Cleaning At Home, Even Got Better Grades. He Had A Purpose. And It Was Just The Beginning. Three Weeks Later, What Nick Feared Most Happened. He Was Walking Ginger One Night When A Pack Of Strays Leapt Out From Behind The Garage. Five Or Six Dogs—Snarling, Hungry, Eyes Glowing In The Dark. The Biggest, A Huge Black Dog, Bared Its Teeth And Advanced. Ginger Instinctively Tried To Hide Behind Nick. His Leg Still Hurt—He Couldn’t Run Fast. The Pack Spotted The Weakness. “Get Back!” Nick Shouted, Waving The Lead. “Go Away!” But The Pack Surrounded Them. The Black Leader Growled Louder, Ready To Pounce. “Nick!” A Woman’s Voice Cried From Above. “Run! Leave The Dog And Run!” It Was Auntie Clare, Leaning Out The Window. Other Neighbours Gathered Behind Her. “Don’t Play The Hero!” Victor Shouted. “He’ll Never Outrun Them On Three Legs!” Nick Glanced Back At Ginger. The Dog Was Shaking But Refused To Flee—Pressing To Nick’s Side, Ready To Face Anything. The Black Dog Leapt First. Nick Shielded Himself With His Arms, The Bite Tore Through His Jacket And Into His Shoulder. But Ginger, Despite His Bad Leg, Despite His Fear—Leapt To Defend His Human. He Clamped Onto The Leader’s Leg With His Teeth, Hanging On For Dear Life. It Was Chaos. Nick Kicked And Punched, Trying To Protect Ginger From The Jaws. He Got Bitten, Scratched, But He Didn’t Give An Inch. “Oh God, What’s Happening!” Auntie Clare Screamed Above. “Victor, Do Something!” Victor Was Running Down The Stairs, Grabbing Whatever Came Hand—A Stick, A Metal Rod. “Hold On, Kid!” He Shouted. “I’m Coming!” Nick Was Nearly Overwhelmed When He Heard A Familiar Voice: “Get Off Him!” It Was His Mum. She Rushed Out With A Bucket Of Water And Threw It At The Dogs. The Pack Scattered, Wet And Snarling. “Victor, Help!” She Yelled. Victor Lunged With The Stick, Neighbours Spilled Out Onto The Estate. Realising They Were Outnumbered, The Strays Ran Off. Nick Lay On The Tarmac, Hugging Ginger. Both Bleeding, Both Shaking. But Alive. Safe. “Son,” Mum Knelt Beside Him, Checking His Wounds. “You Scared Me Half To Death.” “I Couldn’t Leave Him, Mum,” Nick Whispered. “Do You Understand? I Just Couldn’t.” “I Understand,” She Said Softly. Auntie Clare Came Down, Stood Staring At Nick Like She’d Never Seen Him Before. “You Could Have Died… Over A Dog,” She Said, Voice Wavering. “He Didn’t Die Over ‘Just A Dog,’” Victor Interrupted. “He Risked It For A Friend. See The Difference, Clare?” Clare Just Nodded, Tears On Her Cheeks. “Let’s Go Home,” Mum Said. “We Need To Treat Those Wounds. Ginger’s Too.” Nick Struggled Up, Carrying Ginger In His Arms. The Dog Whined Softly, Tail Wagging—Happy His Human Was Close. “Wait,” Victor Stopped Them. “You’ll Go To The Vet Tomorrow?” “We Will.” “I’ll Give You A Lift. And I’ll Pay For The Treatment—The Dog’s A Bit Of A Hero.” Nick Looked At Him In Surprise. “Thanks, Uncle Victor. But I’m Okay On My Own.” “Don’t Argue. Pay Me Back Later. But For Now…” He Patted Nick’s Shoulder. “We’re Proud Of You, Son. Aren’t We?” Neighbours Nodded In Silent Agreement. A Month Passed. Just Another October Evening, And Nick Was Coming Home From The Vet’s—He Now Helped Volunteers There On Weekends. Ginger Trotted Beside Him—His Leg Healed, Barely A Limp Left. “Nick!” Called Auntie Clare. “Wait A Sec!” Nick Stopped, Ready For Another Lecture. But She Handed Him A Bag Of Dog Food. “This Is For Ginger,” She Said, Flustered. “Good Stuff. You Do Look After Him So Well.” “Thanks, Auntie Clare,” Nick Replied, Smiling. “But We’ve Got Food. I Work At The Clinic Now, Dr Anna Pays Me.” “Take It Anyway. You’ll Need It.” At Home, Mum Was Making Dinner. She Smiled When She Saw Her Son. “How’s Things At The Clinic? Is Dr Anna Happy With You?” “She Says I’ve Got Good Hands. And Patience.” Nick Stroked Ginger’s Head. “I Might Become A Vet. I’m Seriously Thinking About It.” “And School?” “Fine. Mr Peterson From Physics Even Praises Me. Says I’m More Focused Now.” Mum Nodded. In That Month, Her Son Had Changed Completely. No More Backchat, He Helped At Home, Even Greeted Neighbours. Most Important—He Had A Dream. “You Know,” She Said, “Victor’s Popping By Tomorrow. He’s Got A Friend With A Kennel Who Needs Help—Could Be Another Job For You.” Nick Lit Up: “Really? Can I Take Ginger?” “I Think So. He’s Almost A Proper Working Dog Now.” That Evening, Nick Sat Outside With Ginger. They Practised A New Trick—“Guard.” The Dog Obeyed, Looking Up At His Human With Trusting Eyes. Victor Came Over, Sat Next To Him On The Bench. “Going To The Kennels Tomorrow, Yeah?” “I Am—with Ginger.” “Better Turn In Early. You’ll Need The Rest.” After Victor Left, Nick Stayed Out A Little Longer. Ginger Rested His Head On Nick’s Knees, Sighing Contentedly. They’d Found Each Other. And Neither Would Ever Be Alone Again.

Max held onto his regret for rushing into divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife Max Peterson’s cheerful mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered the building. At home he was greeted with comforting predictability: slippers at the door, the appetising aroma of dinner, a spotless flat, and fresh flowers in a vase. He wasn’t moved: his wife’s at home, what else would an older lady do with her days? Bake pies and knit socks. (Alright, maybe not the socks—but you get the point.) Marina appeared as usual, smiling and ready: “Hard day? I’ve baked pies—cabbage, apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze. She stood there in her trousered, at-home suit, her hair tucked away under a kerchief—her chef’s habit from a lifetime in the kitchen. Her eyes subtly lined, lips sparkling with gloss: another lifelong habit, one Max now found gaudy. Why doll up old age! He shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he spat out: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips quivered; she didn’t reply and didn’t set the dinner for him. It was just as well. The pies were under a towel, the tea brewed—he could handle it himself. After a shower and dinner, kindness began to return to him, along with memories of the day. Swaddled in his favourite bathrobe, Max settled into his reserved armchair and pretended to read. He recalled what that new colleague had said: “You’re quite the handsome man—and interesting, too.” At 56, Max headed up the legal department of a major firm. A recent graduate and three women over forty reported to him; another was off on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya. Max had been on a business trip during her hiring; he met her properly today. He invited her into his office to introduce himself. With Asya came the scent of delicate perfume and the sense of youth. Blonde curls framed her soft face; confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a telling beauty spot. Thirty, she said? He wouldn’t have guessed above twenty-five. Divorced, mum to an eight-year-old son. He saw it as a good sign—for reasons he couldn’t explain. Chatting, he joked about being “the old boss.” Asya fluttered her lashes and protested with words that lingered with him for hours. His wife, her hurt eased, appeared with his nightly chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always at the wrong moment.” But drank it anyway. Suddenly, he wondered what Asya might be doing now, this young, pretty woman—and felt a sting of long-lost jealousy. **** After work, Asya stopped by the supermarket: cheese, a loaf, kefir for dinner. At home, she hugged her son Vasili with routine more than affection. Her dad tinkered in his workshop, mum made tea. Asya announced a headache—no one to bother her, please. Truthfully, she was simply low. Ever since her divorce from Vasili’s father, Asya had yearned, in vain, to become someone’s leading lady. But all the good men were married, seeking easy romances. Her last affair—a colleague—seemed head-over-heels for two burning years. He even rented her a flat (for his own convenience, really), but at the first sign of trouble, insisted they split up, and that she must resign, too. He even found her a replacement post. So now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mum offered compassion; her dad thought the boy at least needed his mother, not just grandparents. Marina, Max’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything—except what really mattered. She feared to imagine what “the main thing” might be. She did her best: cooked his favourites, stayed well-groomed, avoided soulful chats she herself missed. She tried to distract herself with her grandson and the allotment. But Max was restless, grumpy. Perhaps that’s why, seeking change, Max and Asya’s affair began instantly. Two weeks after she joined the firm, he invited her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand, she turned a flushed face to him. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s visit my cottage?” Max whispered. Asya nodded; the car sped away. Fridays, Max finished early, but that night at nine, his worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max little realised how succinctly he had summed up the upcoming, pointless conversation. Marina knew it was impossible to stay ablaze after thirty-two years of marriage. But losing Max meant losing part of herself, no matter how surly or foolish he could be. She spent the sleepless night rifling through their old wedding album—how beautiful she’d been! So many had dreamt of marrying her. Surely, he should remember. He returned only Sunday; she saw everything was over. Max was changed—energised, unapologetic, determined. She was “free” now; he’d file for divorce tomorrow. Her son’s family would move to Marina’s, all by the book. She tried, in tears, to plead for a pause, for him to remember, to think of his health (even her own, which angered him). He drew close and hissed, “Don’t drag me into your old age!” … To say Asya loved Max would be a stretch—she said yes that first cottage night more for the appeal of being wed, warmed by the sense of “winning” over the man who’d rejected her. She’d had enough of living where her father ruled the roost. She wanted a stable future, the kind Max could offer. Not a bad deal, really. Despite being sixty-ish, he didn’t look like a granddad—fit, sharp, the boss, pleasant, appreciative in bed. And no rented flats, pennilessness, or thieving exes. All pluses? Though his age did worry her. A year later, Asya started to grow disillusioned. She felt youthful, craving excitement—regular, not annual and “dignified.” She wanted concerts, trips to the waterpark, sunbathing, nights out with friends. Her son didn’t slow her down. But Max was flagging. The expert lawyer could navigate any office crisis, but at home was an exhausted man seeking silence and respect for his routine. He tolerated guests and outings—sparingly. He wouldn’t say no to intimacy, but would promptly fall asleep, even at nine in the evening. And his delicate stomach couldn’t handle fried foods or supermarket sausage. His ex-wife had spoiled him, apparently. He even pined for Marina’s poached dinners. Asya cooked for her son, puzzled at Max’s protests over pork cutlets. Medication schedules? She expected a grown man to sort himself. So her life increasingly took place without him—outings with her son, friends, carving her own path. His age spurred her to seize the day. They no longer worked together—management found office spouses inappropriate, so Asya joined a notary’s office. She felt relieved not to spend all day watched by a man who had, more and more, begun to feel like her father. Respect—not love—was what Asya felt for Max. Was it enough for happiness? Max’s 60th birthday approached; Asya craved a big bash. But he booked a discreet restaurant, one he’d visited many times. He seemed bored, which was normal for his age. She shrugged it off. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends were omitted. His son had cut ties. But surely a father has a right to run his own life? Though, marrying, he’d imagined the “running” would look quite different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He loved being seen out with her, indulged her (modest) spending, her fitness hobby, wild concerts and movies. He gave her and her son his flat; after some time, signed over half the cottage he co-owned with Marina. Behind his back, Asya begged Marina to sell her half too, threatening to let sharks buy in. With Max’s money, Asya now owned the full cottage—great for family holidays by the river and woods. Her parents and son stayed there all summer. It worked well; Max wasn’t keen on her lively boy anyway. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s noisy child. His old family was hurt; after selling their flat with the cottage proceeds, they split up. Marina moved to a studio. Max took no interest. **** Now, 60: so many well-wishers, but Max felt no thrill. Dissatisfaction grew each year. He loved his young wife, sure. But keeping up was impossible. And he could never “tame” her; she smiled and lived by her own rules, nothing outrageous—but he found it irksome. Ah, if only she had his ex-wife’s soul! To approach him with evening chamomile, tuck a blanket around him, stroll through parks, whisper together at midnight in the kitchen—Asya found his long chats tedious, even bored in bed. His nerves interfered. Max held a secret regret—he had rushed the divorce. Wise men keep mistresses as a holiday, but he made her his wife! Cheerful Asya, with her youthful spirit, might keep up the fun for another decade. But even in her forties, she’d feel much younger—that gap would only widen. If he was lucky, he’d die swiftly; otherwise… These “non-festive” thoughts throbbed in his temples and his heart raced. Gazing across at Asya—so beautiful, dancing, sparkling eyes—he admitted, it was happiness to wake up beside her. But… He slipped out of the restaurant, hoping to clear his head. But colleagues followed. Restless, overwhelmed, he jumped into a taxi, asking to drive quickly. He’d decide the destination en route. He longed for somewhere he mattered, somewhere he was awaited, cherished, able to relax and not fear seeming weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son, almost begging for his ex-wife’s new address. His son replied, now hostile but softened on hearing it was his birthday. But mum might not be alone, he warned—not a romantic interest, just a friend. “Mum said they studied together. Funny name—Bulkford or something.” “Bulkeith,” Max corrected, feeling jealousy surge. Yes, he’d loved her. She was popular back then. His son asked, “But why do you want this, dad?” Max flinched at the forgotten word and realised how much he missed them all. He answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the address. Max got out, not wanting witnesses when he met Marina. It was nearly nine—she was always a night owl, for him the morning lark. He buzzed. But an unfamiliar, muffled male voice replied. Marina was busy. “Is she all right? Is she healthy?” Max asked, anxious. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband, for what it’s worth! You must be Mr. Bulkeith!” Max shouted. “Mister” Bulkeith coolly corrected that Max was “ex-husband,” so no right to bother Marina, and didn’t bother to explain she was taking a bath. “What, old love never dies?” Max snapped, ready for a prolonged spat with Bulkeith. But the reply was brief: “No. Old love turns to silver.” The door didn’t open for Max…

“Dad, please meet my future wife and your daughter-in-law, Barbara!” Boris beamed with happiness. “Who?!” exclaimed Professor Dr. Roman Fillimore, incredulous. “If this is a joke, it isn’t very funny!” Roman eyed the rough hands and dirty fingernails of his supposed new daughter-in-law with distaste, convinced this country girl had never seen soap or water. “My goodness! How lucky my dear Laura didn’t live to see this disgrace! We tried to teach Boris good manners,” he thought in dismay. “It’s not a joke,” Boris challenged. “Barbara is staying with us, and in three months we’ll be married. If you don’t want to support your son, I’ll manage without you!” “Hello!” Barbara smiled and strode confidently into the kitchen. “I’ve brought pies, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms…” she listed off the items from her tattered bag as Roman watched in horror; a splatter of jam ruined the pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth. “Boris! Wake up! If you’re doing this to spite me, it’s awfully cruel. Which village did you find this uncouth girl in? I won’t let her stay in my home!” the professor shouted in despair. “I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live here,” Boris replied mockingly. Roman realized his son was taunting him and retreated in silence to his study. Their relationship had changed since Laura’s passing. Boris became unruly, dropped out of college, disrespected his father, and lived carelessly. Roman still hoped Boris would return to the thoughtful, kind boy he once knew, but every day his son grew more distant. Now, Boris had brought home a country girl, knowing his father would never approve. Eventually, Boris and Barbara married—without Roman’s blessing. The professor refused to attend the wedding, unwilling to accept this unrefined daughter-in-law. It irked him that Barbara, so uneducated and awkward, replaced the wonderful Laura as mistress of the house. Barbara seemed oblivious to his hostility and tried her best to please him, only making things worse. Roman saw nothing good in her, only bad manners and ignorance. Boris, after his brief stint as a model husband, returned to his old drinking and carousing. Roman often overheard their heated arguments and secretly hoped Barbara would leave for good. One day, Barbara burst in, sobbing. “Professor Fillimore! Boris wants a divorce, he’s kicked me out—and I’m pregnant!” “Out on the street? Surely not—go back to your village,” he replied lightly. “Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship,” he added cheerfully, pleased to finally be rid of his bothersome daughter-in-law. Barbara wept and gathered her things. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or how Boris could toss her aside so carelessly. She was from the countryside, yes, but she had a heart and feelings, too… *** Eight years passed. Roman Fillimore now lived in a care home, his health rapidly declining. Boris wasted no time placing him there, eager to avoid extra responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other choice. After a lifetime teaching thousands the virtues of love and respect—letters of thanks still arrived from former pupils—he’d failed to raise his own son right… “Roman, you’ve got guests,” his roommate said, returning from a walk. “My son? Boris?” Roman blurted, though he knew that was wishful thinking—Boris would never visit; his resentment ran too deep. “Dunno. The nurse said I should fetch you. What are you waiting for? Go on!” his friend encouraged. Roman took his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. As he descended the stairs, he immediately recognized her—eight years on, yet unchanged. “Hello, Barbara,” he said softly, guilt lingering for his past refusal to support this honest, simple woman. “Dr. Fillimore?” Barbara gasped, surprised. “You’ve changed so much… Are you ill?” “Yes, a bit…” he answered with a sad smile. “How did you find me?” “Boris told us. He won’t see his son at all, but the boy keeps begging to visit his dad, or his grandad… Ivan isn’t at fault that you don’t acknowledge him. He’s lonely without family. We’re alone together…,” Barbara’s voice trembled. “Sorry if this was a bad idea.” “Wait!” said Roman. “How’s Ivan now? I remember last time you sent a photo, he was just three.” “He’s at the entrance—shall I call him?” Barbara offered nervously. “Of course, dear—call him!” Roman replied, delighted. Ivan, a ginger-haired boy who resembled Boris, came shyly to meet his grandfather for the first time. “Hello, son! You’ve grown so much…,” Roman said, moved to tears as he hugged his grandson. They spent the day walking through the autumn park, Barbara sharing her struggles: her mother’s early death, raising Ivan and managing the farm alone. “Forgive me, Barbara. I’ve been so wrong. Despite thinking myself clever and educated, I’ve only just realized people should be valued for their sincerity and kindness, not just their intellect and manners,” Roman confessed. “Dr. Fillimore, we have a proposal,” Barbara said, smiling nervously. “Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’d be wonderful to have family close.” “Grandad, come on! We’ll go fishing, pick mushrooms in the woods… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room in our house!” Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. “Let’s go!” Roman said, smiling. “I missed my chance to raise Boris well, but maybe I can give you what I didn’t give him. Besides, I’ve never lived in a village—I think I’ll like it!” “You’ll love it!” Ivan replied, bursting with laughter.

Maxim Bottled Up Regret For Rushing His Divorce: Clever Men Make Mistresses Into Celebrations While He Made One His Wife Maxim Petrov’s good mood vanished the moment he parked his BMW and walked into the block of flats. At home, he was greeted by domestic predictability: slippers waiting at the door, the pleasant aroma of dinner, clean floors, flowers in a vase. He barely noticed his wife at home—what else does a retired English lady have to do all day? Bake pies and knit socks. Well, the socks were an exaggeration, but the point stood. Marina came to meet him with her usual smile: – Tired? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just the way you like… She fell silent under Maxim’s heavy gaze, standing in casual trousers and a housecoat, hair tied up in her kitchen scarf like always. Professional habit—she’d worked as a chef all her life. Eyes lightly lined, lips shiny with gloss: just a routine, but tonight Maxim found it cheap. Why paint your twilight years? Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he blurted: – Makeup at your age is nonsense! It doesn’t suit you. Marina’s lips quivered, but she said nothing, nor did she set the table for him. Just as well. The pies were under a towel; tea was made—he could manage himself. After a shower and dinner, Maxim’s good humour began to return, along with memories of his day. Settled in his favourite bathrobe and his special armchair, he pretended to read. Words of his new colleague echoed in his mind: – You’re quite an attractive man, and rather interesting too. At 56, Maxim headed the legal department of a prominent British company. Reporting to him were a recent graduate and three women over forty. Another staff member was on maternity leave. Her replacement was Asya, whom he met for the first time that day. He invited her to his office—her fresh perfume preceded her, along with youthful vigour. A gentle, oval face framed by blonde curls, confident blue eyes, luscious lips, a beauty mark. Was she really 30? He’d have guessed 25. Divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Maxim thought, “Good!” Their conversation was flirtatious—he teased about being the ‘old boss.’ Asya fluttered her lashes and replied with words that thrilled him, words he now replayed in his mind. His wife, recovered from his earlier jab, brought him her usual chamomile tea. He frowned—‘Always at the wrong time.’ Still, he drank it with some pleasure. He suddenly wondered what the lovely, young Asya might be doing right now. And, unexpectedly, felt a sting of long-forgotten jealousy… ** Asya stopped at the supermarket after work: cheese, bread, kefir for dinner. She arrived home neutral, but without a smile, hugging her son Vasily more automatically than with affection. Her father tinkered in his workshop; her mother prepared dinner. Dumping groceries, Asya announced she had a headache and shouldn’t be bothered. Truthfully, she felt melancholy. Ever since divorcing Vasily’s father, Asya had desperately tried—and failed—to become someone’s main woman. The decent men were always married, looking only for easy company. Her last partner at work pretended to be head over heels. Two passionate years. He rented her a flat (more for his convenience), but as soon as things got serious, he insisted not only on ending the relationship but wanted her to quit her job. He even lined up a new position for her. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Her mother sympathized; her father thought Vasily should at least be raised with his mother rather than just grandparents. Marina, Maxim’s wife, had long noticed his midlife crisis. They had everything, but something essential was missing. Fearing what might become ‘essential’ for Maxim, she tried to ease domestic tensions—cooking his favourites, staying tidy, and not pushing for heart-to-hearts, though she deeply missed those. She tried to get involved with her grandson and garden, but Maxim only grew gloomier. Because both craved change, Maxim and Asya’s affair happened fast. Two weeks after Asya joined the firm, he took her to lunch and drove her home. He touched her hand; she turned with a blush. – I don’t want to say goodbye. Come to my cottage? – Maxim asked huskily. She nodded—and off they sped. On Fridays, Maxim left work early, but only at 9 pm did Marina receive the text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Maxim had no idea how accurate that phrase was for the coming, essentially unnecessary, conversation. Marina understood that after 32 years, the fire could not blaze forever. But losing this man felt like losing part of herself. He might complain, brood and act foolishly, but he’d always be there—in his beloved chair, eating dinner, breathing next to her. Searching for words to stop her life’s collapse (really, her collapse), Marina didn’t sleep at all, clutching their wedding album—once, she had been stunning. So many dreamed of calling her their own. He should remember… But he didn’t return until Sunday, and she realized: it was over. This was a different Maxim. He was brimming with adrenaline, no awkwardness or shame. Unlike her, who feared change, Maxim welcomed it. He’d prepared everything. Announced she’d be free, he’d file tomorrow. The family must move into Marina’s place; everything was above board. The two-bedroom flat belonging to Maxim would go to their son’s family. Moving into Marina’s three-bedroom home wouldn’t worsen the younger family’s accommodations, and she’d have people to care for. The car, of course, would stay with Maxim. As for the cottage—he kept rights to leisure there. Marina knew she seemed pathetic—but couldn’t stop her tears. She tried to ask him to remember their past, think of her health, at least. The latter enraged him. He came close, whispering harshly: – Don’t drag me into your old age! It would be wrong to say Asya loved Maxim and that’s why she accepted his proposal—in their very first night at the cottage. The status as a married woman was appealing, as was the message it sent to her ex-lover who abandoned her. She was tired of living in her father’s strict household. Stability beckoned, and Maxim could provide it. Not a bad option, really. Despite being in his sixth decade, Maxim didn’t look like a granddad. He was fit, youthful, a department head, clever and sociable. In bed, he was appreciative, not selfish. He would provide a real home—no rented flat, no penny-pinching, no hassles. So many positives! Only his age brought doubts. A year passed, and Asya grew disenchanted. She was still very much a young woman, craving excitement and regular adventures—not sober outings once a year. She wanted concerts, trips to waterparks, sunbathing in cheeky swimsuits, nights with her friends. Her youthful energy meant she balanced it all with her home life—including her son living with her now. But Maxim was slowing down. At work, he handled problems easily, but at home he was just tired, seeking quiet and his routines. Social occasions were tolerated, in small doses. He didn’t mind intimacy—but only if followed by an early bedtime. She also had to consider his weak stomach, ruined by years of delicately steamed meals by his ex-wife. Asya cooked for her son, struggling to understand how pork cutlets could cause such distress. She refused to memorize his long list of medications—surely a grown man could manage that? Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son out, joined up with her friends. Strangely, Maxim’s age seemed to prod her to live faster. They no longer worked together—the management had frowned upon their relationship, so Asya transferred to a solicitor’s office. She was relieved not to spend all day under his watchful gaze. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Whether that’s enough for happiness, who knows? Maxim’s 60th birthday approached. Asya wanted a grand celebration, but Maxim booked a table at his familiar, modest restaurant. He seemed bored, but that’s natural, she thought. Colleagues celebrated him. Those old couple-friends from his first marriage were not invited—awkward. Family was distant; understanding was lacking, especially after his marriage to someone so young. His son had disowned him. But doesn’t a father have a right to his own life? Still, remarrying, Maxim had imagined something different. The first year with Asya felt like a honeymoon. He enjoyed public outings with her, encouraged reasonable spending and friends, and her fitness pursuits. He coped with wild concerts and crazy films. At this high, he made Asya and her son full co-owners of his flat. Later, he gave her his stake in the cottage he’d shared with Marina. Asya, behind his back, pressed Marina to sell her half, threatening to sell hers to strangers. Marina caved—Maxim bought the other half, and the property was registered to Asya. She argued that the riverside and woods were perfect for children. Now all summer, Asya’s parents and son lived at the cottage, which suited Maxim—he wasn’t fond of her lively boy. He’d married for love, not to raise someone else’s noisy child. His old family was offended. With their share of the cottage sold for cash, they parted ways. The son’s family found a two-bed flat; Marina, his ex, moved into a studio. Maxim didn’t ask how things were going. ** And now, on his 60th birthday, surrounded by well-wishers, Maxim felt no thrill. Each year, familiar dissatisfaction grew. He did love his young wife. He just couldn’t keep up. And he could never quite reign her in; she smiled and lived on her own terms. She was never indiscreet, but it bothered him. If only he could combine the soul of his ex-wife with Asya—a partner who’d bring him tea, tuck him under a blanket, stroll quietly through the park, and chat deep into the night. But Asya couldn’t stand his long talks. She seemed bored with him intimately, and his nerves made it worse. Maxim kept a secret regret for divorcing so quickly. Clever men turn mistresses into occasions, into celebrations—he had turned one into a wife! Asya, with her sparkle, might stay playful for another decade—but she will always be decades younger. The gap will only widen. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll pass in a single moment. If not… These ‘non-celebratory’ thoughts pounded in his head, made his heart race. He glanced at Asya—she was dancing among the crowd. Beautiful, eyes shining. Yes, it’s happiness, waking up beside her. Taking advantage of a moment, Maxim stepped out of the restaurant for air, trying to dispel his gloom. Colleagues soon joined him. Overwhelmed, he dashed to a waiting taxi and asked to drive—he’d figure out the direction later. He wanted to go somewhere he mattered. Somewhere he was expected, valued, and could relax without appearing weak—or, heaven forbid, old. He called his son and almost pleaded for Marina’s new address. He listened to deserved irritation but pressed on, saying it was a matter of life and… death. He let slip that, after all, it was his birthday. His son softened a bit, warning that his mother might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. – Mum says it’s an old schoolmate, surname sounds silly… something like Bunworth. – Bulkley, – Maxim corrected, feeling a pang of jealousy. Yes, he’d once been in love with her. She’d been popular, beautiful, bold. She had planned to marry Bulkley, but Maxim stole her away. Long ago, yet more real to him than life with Asya. His son asked: – Why do you need this, Dad? Maxim recoiled at the forgotten word and realized just how much he missed them. His answer: “I don’t know, son.” His son recited the new address. The taxi stopped, Maxim got out—not wanting witnesses to that conversation. It was almost nine; but Marina was a night owl—the perfect match to his own lark. He buzzed the intercom. But it was not his ex-wife who answered; a muffled, male voice replied. Marina was busy. – Is she OK? Is she well? – Maxim asked, worried. The voice demanded his name. – Excuse me, I’m her husband, actually! You’re Bulkley, I suppose? – Maxim barked. ‘Sir,’ the other retorted, ‘you’re the former husband, so you have no right to bother Marina. No need to explain—she’s in the bath.’ – So, old love doesn’t rust, does it? – Maxim snapped sarcastically, gearing up for a long spat. Bulkley replied: – No, sir, it turns to silver. Maxim never did get through that door…

The Lonely Heart of the Cat Thudded in His Chest, Thoughts Racing and Soul Ached—What Had Happened for His Owner to Give Him Away to Strangers and Abandon Him? When Lesley Was Gifted a Pitch-Black British Shorthair for Her Housewarming, She Barely Recovered from Shock… Her Modest One-Bedroom Flat, Financed with Great Effort, Was Barely Furnished, and Life Was Full of Other Worries. Suddenly, There Was a Kitten. Still Reeling, Lesley Looked into Its Amber Eyes, Sighed, Smiled, and Asked the Gift-Giver: “Is it a boy or a girl?” “A boy!” “All right, you’ll be called Felix,” she said to the kitten. The kitten opened his tiny mouth and obediently squeaked, “Meow”… ***** It turned out British Shorthairs make wonderful companions. And for three years now, Lesley and Felix have lived together in perfect harmony. Through sharing life, Lesley discovered Felix’s touching soul and big heart. He eagerly greeted his owner after work, warmed her at night, watched films snuggled by her side, and trailed after her during chores. Life with Felix became vibrant. It was nice to have someone waiting at home—someone with whom to laugh or cry, who understood her instantly. It seemed all was perfect, but… Recently Lesley noticed pain in her right side. She blamed an awkward twist, then heavy food, but as things worsened, she saw a doctor. When the doctor revealed her diagnosis and explained what lay ahead, Lesley sobbed all evening into her pillow. Felix, sensing her pain, quietly curled beside her and tried to comfort her with his soothing purr. Unknowingly, lulled by Felix’s purring, Lesley fell asleep. By morning, resigned to her fate, she decided not to tell her family about her illness—she wanted to spare herself pity and awkward offers of help. She still hoped medicine might help. A course of treatment was recommended. Then came the question: Where would Felix go? Deep inside, accepting that her illness could end tragically, she decided to find Felix a loving new home. She posted online, offering purebred Felix to good hands. When the first caller asked why she was parting with an adult cat, Lesley, not fully understanding herself, explained she was expecting a baby and had developed an allergy during pregnancy. Three days later, Felix departed with his carrier and belongings for a new family—and Lesley entered the hospital… Two days on, she phoned Felix’s new owners to ask after him, but, after many apologies, they explained Felix had escaped that same evening and couldn’t be found. Her first impulse was to run from hospital and search for her cat. She even pleaded with the nurse, but was sternly sent back to her ward. Her roommate, a frail elderly lady, noticed Lesley’s distress and asked what had happened. Lesley, in tears, confided everything. “Don’t despair, dear,” said the kind old woman. “Tomorrow a top specialist is coming from London. My own diagnosis is grim—my son wanted to transfer me, but I refused. He managed to arrange for this specialist anyway. I’ll ask her to see you too; maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” she said, gently patting Lesley’s shoulder. **** Once Felix escaped his carrier, he realised he was in a strange home. A hand reached out to stroke him—he snapped, clawed the hand, and fled to a dark corner. “Paul, leave him be for now. Let him adjust,” came a gentle female voice, but not the voice of his beloved Lesley. Felix’s heart beat dully in his chest, thoughts scattered, and his soul ached. What could possibly have happened for Lesley to give him away? Why had she left him? His amber eyes scanned the room fearfully. He spotted an open window. In a flash, the black cat shot across the room and out! Luckily, it was only the second floor and a soft lawn beneath—the beginning of Felix’s perilous journey back home… ***** The specialist appeared: a pleasant woman in her forties, named Dr. Mary Powell. She reviewed Lesley’s file, asked her to lie on her left side, and carefully performed examinations and tests. Lesley hoped for nothing. She returned to her room, finding her roommate already resting. “So, what did she say, love?” “Nothing yet; she’ll come to the ward later.” “I see. Sadly, my diagnosis was confirmed,” said the woman. “I’m so sorry, and thank you for everything,” Lesley replied, unsure how to comfort someone aware her end was near. Half an hour later, Dr. Powell returned, accompanied by other doctors. “Well, Lesley, I have good news! Your condition is treatable. I’ve arranged your course already—stay a couple of weeks, complete treatment, and you’ll be healthy again,” she smiled. As the doctors left, her roommate said, “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could do one more good deed before I go. Be happy, dear.” ***** Felix had no guiding star, but followed his feline intuition homeward. His journey was fraught with danger and comic mishaps—the once sheltered Brit transformed, overnight, into a streetwise predator. Dodging busy roads, darting stealthily, climbing trees, Felix pressed on toward his purpose… In one quiet yard, he came snout-to-snout with an old alley cat, who instantly marked Felix as an outsider. With a yowl, he attacked, but Felix, more bandit than aristocrat now, did not back down. Their scuffle was short—the local boss retreated, nursing a torn ear. How else? That alley cat wanted to show who’s boss; Felix was simply intent on getting home. The journey continued. Drawing on distant ancestry, Felix learned to nap on forked branches and, shamefully, eat from bins and steal scraps from other strays. Once, a pack of mongrels chased him up a spindly tree, barking and clawing at the trunk. Locals shooed the dogs away. One kindly woman tempted Felix with tasty sausage, and he let her scoop him up, seeking warmth, food, and safety. But, after resting and refuelling, Felix remembered his mission, sprinted out after her, and slipped back through a fortuitously open door—resuming his journey home… ***** Discharged from hospital, Lesley returned home, her mind echoing the kind woman’s wish for happiness. Of course, she was thrilled by her recovery. But her heart ached for Felix. She couldn’t imagine how she’d enter an empty flat, never to be met again. Barely across her threshold, Lesley phoned Felix’s previous adopters, got their address, and went to investigate Felix’s escape. She was told it was impossible, that two weeks had passed, that a pampered house cat couldn’t survive on the street—but she refused to accept it. Lesley wandered street after street, peering into every yard, scouring parks and garages, trying to think like a cat who had never braved the outdoors before. Calling Felix, peering into the darkness of cellar windows. Nearing her own block, she realised Felix had vanished without a trace. And how could he possibly find his way here—a route she’d walked for two hours, even with delays? She entered her courtyard, head bowed, eyes brimming with tears, heart heavy with grief. Through misted eyes, she saw, from the other side of the pavement, a black cat approaching. “A black cat”—the thought flashed through her mind. Lesley stopped, stared, and recognised him. She broke into a run, shouting, “Felix!” The cat didn’t run; he simply had no strength left. He sat down, squinting with happiness, and quietly squeaked, “Made it!”