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…

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 14 minViews 1

Twelve Years Later

Please, I beg you, help me find my son! The woman’s voice trembled on the verge of tears. I ask for nothing else in this world!

Catherine sank onto the studios worn sofa, hands twisted dramatically in her lap. She had dressed down on purpose, donned the plainest cardigan she owned, and deliberately skipped sleep the night before in order to look pale and drawn, the image of a suffering mother. She needed the audience to feel her agony, to want to help her.

My greatest wish now her voice barely rose above a whisper, every word sounding as if it cost her dearly, is to be reunited with my son. Ive tried everything, truly. I went to the police, begging them for help. They refused even to file a report! They said my son, Thomas, is well into adulthood, and left a long time ago. Said, If you werent worried about him all these years, why come now?

The host listened, his head cocked slightly in practiced concern. In truth, he had serious doubts about Catherines story. He could sense another, duller motive behind her performance. Shed fallen out with her son and ignored him for years, and only now, when it suited her, was she here to play the grieving mother? Still, such stories always pulled in the viewers, and thats what the programme needed.

So, a falling out between you and your son led to you losing touch with him? he asked, glancing at the members of the audiencesome wearing sceptical frowns, others genuinely upset for the unfortunate mother.

Catherine nodded, tears sparkling in her weary eyes. She drew a deep, uneven breath and pressed on.

Yes, it all started twelve years ago. Thomas fell in love, truly in love, and insisted he would marry her. I tried to understand, but that girl from the start, I didnt trust her. Anyone could see where it would end! She smoked, drank, disappeared at all hours in questionable company Worst of all, she began to drag my Thomas down with her.

Her voice faltered briefly, as if reliving those distant days. The host gave her space, letting the tension build.

I tried to talk sense into him, to warn him, Catherine continued, struggling to summon just the right tone of grief. But to him, I was just a mother, refusing to see her son as an adult. One night things reached breaking pointhe slammed his fist on the table and shouted, Im leaving!

Catherine sobbed then. The host handed her a neatly folded handkerchief; she dabbed her tears with delicate, deliberate care, ensuring not to smudge her makeup. After a moment she managed to steady herself.

He left. Packed his things while I was out at work. No word, no goodbye Changed his number, cut contact: friends, family, everyone, gone. All because of some girl

Her voice quivered. For a second she closed her eyes, as if trying to contain the tidal wave of pain.

Forgive me its hard to remain composed, she whispered, gripping the handkerchief tightly.

Her head dropped, hair falling forward to shadow her face in a move calculated to deepen her air of misery. Now was the moment, according to her plan, to completely break down, giving herself over to heartache that she didnt, in truth, feel. All she knew was tense anticipationwould the public respond with sympathy, as she hoped?

The host, seeing mostly dry eyes, played along. We understand your pain, he said softly, signalling an assistant to bring over a glass of water. Theres no rushtake your time.

A deliberate pause followed, long enough for drama but not so long as to disrupt the programme.

Do you know anything about your sons whereabouts? the host finally prompted, his body leaning forward, a show of empathy.

Catherine raised her head, her eyes carefully arranging despair and a glimmer of hope.

My friend bumped into him in London not long ago, she said, her voice trembling slightly for effect. They only exchanged a few words, but it turns out Thomas even changed his surname! How am I to find him? Im powerless on my ownplease, if anyone has seen him

She turned to face the camera, her features moulded into an expression of abject griefa mask of silent suffering meant to pierce the hearts of the nation.

I was in hospital recently, she added, the fear in her voice unexpectedly genuine now, and realised that time is against me. Who knows how long I have? All I want is to see my son, to hold him, to say, Its forgivenI just want to make amends

A photograph faded onto the studio screena young man, just past twenty, with fair hair, grey-blue eyes, tall, handsome but unremarkable. The sort of man you might pass in the street and forget a moment later. Catherine gazed at the imagetwelve years could have wrought great change; he might sport a beard, wear glasses, have put on weight or grown leaner. The odds against finding him seemed insurmountable, but Catherine refused to let herself believe it.

If anyone recognises this young man, please contact the studio, the host intoned calmly. The numbers at the bottom of your screen.

The taping ended. Catherine, her role still in play, bade the crew polite goodbye and drifted to the exit.

Outside, she turned to her friend Amandathe mastermind behind this appearance, urging her on. Catherines mouth twisted into a restrained, satisfied smile.

So, did it work? she asked, her pride barely disguised.

Amanda had watched the audience like a hawk and nodded knowingly. They were in tears. Some were dabbing at their eyes, others muttering and shaking their heads. A triumph. Soon enough, youll learn where your precious son is livingand youll be able to claim what he owes you for all your investments. Look at himliving the high life, not a penny sent to his mother!

Catherine winced. Amandas bluntness was bordering on cruel, but there was a kernel of truth in her words.

Until recently, Thomas had barely flitted across Catherines thoughts, and when he did, she felt nothing deeper than a fleeting curiosity. Everything changed after Amandas friend passing through London spotted Thomas. He told Amanda about the remarkable change in fortune.

A lavish car, the sort that turns heads. A suit custom-made by a renowned designer, worth tens of thousands of pounds. Watches bespoke, with an engraving and a mechanical complexity found only in the most exclusive boutiques. Thomas stepping out of one of the capitals elite restaurants where a meal easily cost a small fortuneit spoke volumes.

Catherine had no illusions about her motivations. She was not interested in her sons life for sentiments sake; it was the moneymoney he owed her as his mother! Shed given him life, hadnt she? It was high time he paid her back.

Hell be found, no doubt, Catherine repeated quietly, mostly to herself. Just a little longer, and Ill be taken care of

Honestly, Catherine was certain Thomas wouldnt dare refuse her. He was well-established among people for whom scandal was deadly. Of course hed have to play the role of dutiful sonafter all this on national television! He would have no choice.

Naive She had yet to realise the elaborate trap set by her own son

***************************

Twelve years earlier.

Thomas returned just after nine, exhausted. Hed just sat his most gruelling university examhis mind a jumble of formulas, his body aching from sleepless weeks. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and lose himself in oblivion. But he knew such comfort would be denied tonight.

As he neared the flat, raised voices spilled out from beneath the front doormale, sharp and hostile; female, pleading and defensive. That man again Thomass jaw clenched. The clatter of their arguments greeted him nearly every evening.

With a heavy sigh, Thomas slid his key into the lock and hoped he might slip silently to his room, just this once. But stepping inside, he nearly tripped over bags and suitcases stacked just inside the door.

He paused, staring down. All his luggagehis travel bags, rucksacksdeliberately displayed. His heart jolted.

Whats this? he called, trying for calm. Why are my things here? Whats going on?

His voice was louder than intended. He placed his books on the floor, arms crossed in expectation. The house fell silent, then Catherine emerged.

Her face twisted with annoyance, nostrils flaring. She barely looked at her son before spinning round and walking away. Stung, Thomas trailed her to the kitchen, where a door stood ajar. There, sat at the table, was that strangerAlanlounging as if in his own home, tea in hand, his gaze coolly sweeping over Thomas before returning to Catherine.

Thomas bristled.

Whats he doing here? he demanded.

Have you not told him yet? Alans tone was mocking, fiddling with his phone. What are you waiting for?

Dont speak about me as if Im not here! Thomas burst out. I have every right to be in this flat! Unlike you! Who even are you, and why is your son here?

But before he could say more, Catherine cut him off, her words icy and unwavering, as though delivering a weather report.

From today, you wont be living here. Your old room now belongs to Alans son.

Thomas stared, thunderstruck. He searched her face for a flicker of warmth or regret, some sign it was a cruel joke, but she stood ramrod straight, lips pressed tight, determined.

But Dad meant this flat to be mine to inherit

Catherine folded her arms, chin raised. For a single moment her face looked pained, but to Thomas, it seemed forced.

He did, but his accident happened so suddenly, she answered coldly. He didnt change his will, so the old one standsfrom before you were born. I alone own this flat. I decide who lives here. As of today, youre not allowed back. Youre a grown man, clinging to your mothers apron strings! Arent you ashamed?

Each word landed like a slap. This wasnt just a warning, but an evaporation of home and stability. The place where he grew up, the creak in every floorboard and chip in every wall familiar and comforting now gone.

A muscle in his jaw twitchedan involuntary tic, stress building to breaking point. In the swirl of shock, a suspicion even flared: had his fathers accident been more than just bad luck? Was this part of some cunning plan, to keep the flat from ever passing into other hands?

He glanced at Alan, who merely sipped his tea, detached, indifferent, as if amused to be a witness to Thomass humiliation.

Youre serious? Thomas croaked, looking desperately at Catherine. Youre actually throwing your own son onto the street?

She shrugged, as if it were nothingrearranging a rug, swapping a cushion.

Ive even packed your things. From today, someone else will be living here. Dont bother coming back without my permission.

Youre joking! Where am I meant to sleep? His voice was dull, wounded, eyes searching for mercy in hers.

He still hoped shed laugh and say it was all a test. But Catherines face remained an implacable mask.

He wanted to lash out, to grab Alan by the collar and demand, Who are you to decide my fate? But Thomas kept his fists at his sides and his breathing steady.

Youll manage, Catherine replied indifferently. You have friendsyou can stay with one of them. After that, its your problem.

She made it sound like moving a book, not shattering her sons life. Thomass insides twisted at the injustice, but he pushed the feeling down.

And one more thing, Catherine added, her chin set, Ive taken the money for your final university fees. Earn them yourself if you want to finish. I need the funds morea wedding isnt cheap.

That last blow stunned Thomas into silence. Not only had she thrown him out, she was cutting him off completely, tearing out every safety net.

But he wouldnt beg. Never. Not now, not ever. Already, he could see a way forward: take a gap year, work every hour he could find, pay for his own education. He had his hands, his mind, his determinationhed be all right.

Thomas nodded, accepting the challenge. For the first time he saw there was no way back; nothing unbroken left between them.

No matter what happened, he would never forgive her.

***************************

Have you seen this yet? Nick leaned in across the office table, waving his phone. Friend back home just sent me this. It was on telly tonight.

Thomas looked up from his folder, his attention snatched away. He knew immediately that there was no point trying to return to work. A strange satisfaction wound through himpart relief, part bitter amusement.

Ive seen it, he said, lips curving faintly. Amandas husband wasnt going to keep quiet about seeing me, but thats exactly what I wanted. Let her see just what she gave up.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his cropped hair, recalling the television segmenthis mother, so studiously mournful, pleading for her lost son. Twelve years ago she had thrown him out, cut him off without remorse. Now, she wanted to play the bereaved mother for the cameras.

Well, Thomas had done well for himselfnot loudly, not with resentment or tabloid drama, but with quiet, deliberate success. He had built a stable life, a strong career, forged valuable connections. Now, he held a British passport, drew a solid income, had a future made by his own hand. Hed accomplished it all without her help, blessing, or opinion.

Now his mother knew the truth tooshe could see what her cruelty had cost her. She might have earned his support or even a place in his life. But she had chosen Alan and his son, chosen to spend his university funds on her own new life, chosen to leave him with nothing.

Soon, shed realise: no money would ever come from him. Not a penny. Not a phone call, not a chance of reconciliation. Thomas had made his decisionthe past was finished. He was building his own future, alone, without her, beyond all her manipulation and guilt.

The woman who gave him birth could never reach him againnot in person, not through emotion. And perhaps, that was truly the best revenge.

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.

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.