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“Well, There You Go!” Exclaimed Alex. “That’s Right! The Final Word Should Always Belong to the Man” One Morning, Alex, the Adult Grandson Whose Wedding the Ephimovs Had Recently Attended, Arrived from the City for Potatoes, as He Always Helped His Beloved Grandparents to Plant and Dig Them. “Well, Tell Me, Alex, How’s Life with Your Svetlana?” Granny Asked Eagerly While Pottering by the Stove. “It’s… Mixed, Gran…” Alex Replied Reluctantly. “Sometimes Good, Sometimes Not So Much…” “Hold On a Minute,” Grandpa Ivan Piped Up. “What Do You Mean, ‘Mixed’? You Two Arguing Already?” “Well, Not Really Arguing Yet. We’re Just Trying to Decide Who’s Boss at Home,” Admitted Alex. “Honestly…” Granny Sighed with a Chuckle at the Stove, “That’s Not Hard to Work Out. It’s Obvious.” “Yes,” Laughed Grandpa, “Obviously, the Wife Is—and Always Will Be—the Head of the Household.” “Oh, Do Tell…” Came Granny’s Voice Again from the Stove. “Granddad, Are You Serious?” Alex Looked at Him in Surprise. “You’re Joking, Right?” “Not at All,” Ivan Replied. “If You Don’t Believe Me, Just Ask Your Granny. Go on, Catherine, Tell Him—Who Has the Last Word in Our House?” “Oh, Stop Talking Nonsense,” Granny Responded Good-Naturedly. “No, Go on, Say It,” Ivan Insisted. “Who Makes the Final Decisions—You or Me?” “Well, I Suppose I Do…” “How’s That?” Alex Looked Doubtful. “I’ve Never Noticed That Here. And Honestly, I’ve Always Thought the Man Should Be in Charge.” “Oh, Alex, You Silly Thing,” Grandpa Laughed Again. “That’s Not How It Works in a Real Family—Let Me Tell You a Couple of Stories, and You’ll See for Yourself.” Storytime “Here We Go…” Granny Grumbled. “He’s Bound to Bring Up the Motorbike Now.” “What Motorbike?” Alex Was Curious. “That Old Rust Bucket Rusting in the Shed,” Grandpa Confirmed. “It’s a Century Old by Now. Do You Know How Your Granny Made Me Buy It?” “Gran Made You?” “Yep! Gave Me Her Own Hard-Earned Money to Do It. But First, There Was Another Story…” Once, I Had Enough Money Saved to Buy a Motorbike with a Sidecar. I Told Catherine—Your Gran—I Wanted It to Carry Potatoes from the Field. Farms Used to Give Out Potato Plots Back Then. But Your Gran Put Her Foot Down. ‘Let’s Get a Colour TV Instead,’ She Said—they Were Costly Back Then. ‘You’ve Always Hauled Spuds on a Bicycle; Just Keep Doing That. Bag on the Bar, Off You Go.’ Fine, I Said, ‘Your Word Is Final.’ So, We Bought the TV. “What About the Motorbike?” Alex Was Puzzled. “We Got It—Eventually…” Granny Sighed. “But Not Until Later. Your Grandpa Put His Back Out and I Had to Cart Almost All the Potatoes Myself. After That, When We Sold the Pigs in November, I Gave Him All the Money and Told Him to Go Get the Bike.” “And Next Autumn,” Grandpa Continued, “We Came Into Some Money Again. I Wanted to Build a New Shed—the Old One’s Roof Had Rotted Away. But Your Gran Insisted on Buying Proper Furnishings to Look Like Everyone Else. Fine, I Said, ‘Your Word Is Final.’ So, We Bought the Furniture.” “And That Spring,” Granny Concluded, “The Old Shed Collapsed—Too Much Snow. From Then On, I Decided Whatever Ivan Told Me to Do, That’s How It Would Be.” “Well, There You Go!” Exclaimed Alex. “That Proves My Point—The Man Should Always Have the Final Say!” “Oh, Alex, You’re Missing the Whole Point!” Grandpa Laughed. “Every Time I Want Something Done, I Ask Her First—‘Fancy Me Rebuilding the Chimney, Love? Is That Alright?’ However She Decides, That’s How It Goes.” “And Since Then, I Always Tell Him, ‘Do What You Think Is Best,’” Granny Added. “So, You See, Alex,” Grandpa Concluded, “In the End, It’s Always Best if the Wife Has the Final Say. Do You Understand Now?” Alex Went Quiet, Then Burst Out Laughing. After He Stopped, He Seemed to Think Deeply, His Face Eventually Brightening. “Now I Get It, Granddad. When I Get Home I’ll Say: ‘Alright, Sveta, Let’s Holiday in Turkey Like You Want. I Won’t Get the Car Fixed Just Yet, Even Though the Automatic’s Playing Up. If the Car Breaks Down, So What? We’ll Catch the Bus to Work All Winter—Just Means Getting Up an Hour Earlier. That’s No Big Deal, Right?’ Is That the Right Way to Look at It, Granddad?” “Absolutely Spot On,” Grandpa Nodded with a Grin. “And Give It a Year or Two, You’ll Find That Harmony in Your Own Family, Too. After All, It’s Always Best When the Wife Is in Charge. Keeps the Husband Happy, I Can Tell You from Experience…”

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Well, there we are! I exclaimed, Everythings settled! The last word always has to be the husbands.

This morning, our grandson, Oliver, arrived from London. Wed recently been to his wedding, and now he was visiting us here in the countryside, coming for some potatoes. Hes always helped me and my husband, Henry, planting and digging up the spuds over the years.

So, tell me, Oliver, how are things with you and your Emily? I asked quickly as I busied myself by the oven.

Oh, it depends, Gran Its been a bit of this and that, he replied, not sounding especially cheerful. It just depends

Wait a minute, Henry raised his eyebrow, What do you mean depends? Are you two arguing already?

No, not really. Were just trying to settle whos in charge at home, Oliver confessed.

Oh heavens, I chuckled wryly as I poked at the oven, Thats not exactly a mystery, is it?

Quite right, Henry burst out laughing. The answers obvious: in any family, the wifes always been in charge.

Oh, is that so? I called over my shoulder from the kitchen.

Grandad, really? Oliver gaped at Henry, Are you pulling my leg?

Not at all, Henry replied flatly. If you dont believe me, ask your gran. Go on, Margaret, tell himwhose word is final in this house?

Oh, dont talk rubbish, I replied kindly.

No, reallysay it, Henry pressed. When it comes down to it, who makes the final decisionme or you?

Well, I do

Seriously? Oliver was surprised. Ive never felt that in this house! Anyway, I think the man should be the boss in his own home.

Oh, dont be silly, Oliver, Henry laughed again. In a real family, it doesnt work the way you think. Let me tell you a couple of stories, youll soon understand.

Story

Here we go again, I muttered with mild exasperation. Hes bound to start with the motorbike saga.

What motorbike? Oliver asked, bemused.

The very same thats rusting away in the shed, Henry confirmed. It must be a century old by now. Do you know how your gran made me buy that bike?

Gran made you?

Oh yes, she gave me the money herself. Out of her savings. But theres more to the story.

Once, I earned just enough to buy a motorbike with a sidecar. I told Margaret, your gran, I wanted itfor bringing potatoes back from the allotment. Back then, wed been allocated a patch for growing spuds.

Your gran put her foot down. She said we should get a colour telly insteadthose were pricey in those days. Besides, she said, Id always managed carrying sacks on my old pushbike, so why change now?

One sack on the crossbar and off Id go! So, I said, Have it your way; your words always final. We bought the telly.

And the motorbike? Oliver queried, puzzled.

We bought that too eventually, I sighed. But only later. Henry did his back inso badly that I had to fetch nearly all the potatoes myself after that.

The following November, when we sold the pigs for meat, I gave him all the money we made and told him to head into the county town for that motorbike-with-sidecar.

The next autumn, we had a bit of money again, Henry picked up the story. I said, Lets put it toward a new shedthe old one from my parents day was rotten through, roof and walls. But your gran insisted on furniture. Lets make the house decent, she said, like other peoples. In the end, her word was final again. We bought the furniture.

And that spring, the old shed collapsed, I finished the story. So much snow the roof just gave in Thats when I decided the rest of our days would go as Henry wanted.

There you have it! Oliver laughed. The husbands got to have the last word!

Thats not it, Oliver, Henry grinned. You dont get it. Before I do anything, Ill say: Margaret, Im thinking of fixing up the fireplace. What do you reckon? If she agrees, I do it. If notwell, thats the decision, isnt it?

After those times, I always say, Do what you think is best.

So, Oliver, in any good marriage, the wife really ought to have the last word, Henry finished. Are we agreed?

Oliver thought for a bit, then suddenly started laughing. Once hed finished, a light dawned on his face.

All right, Grandad, now I get it. Ill go home and say, Okay, Emily, well book that holiday to Spain youre so keen on. The car can waitthe gearbox needs fixing, but whats the rush? If it conks out, so be itwell just have to get the early bus to work all winter. An hour less sleep, thats all. No big deal, right? Is that the idea, Grandad?

Absolutely spot on, Henry nodded with a grin. Give it a year or two, Oliver, and youll seethings work themselves out.

And a wife ought to be the one in charge at home. Makes for a more peaceful life for the husband, I can tell you from experienceOliver grinned at us both, the easy laughter lingering in his eyes, and for a moment, the kitchen filled with a kind of gentle, knowing warmththe sort that grows from years of love and muddle, potato-dug hands, and the quiet bargains that dont need words. The kettle whistled and Henry poured three cups, his own hands trembling just enough to make me worry, though I pretended not to notice.

Well then, Oliver said, raising his mug as though wed just sealed some ancient pact, heres to the last word, and to knowing when not to use it.

We clinked mugs, and I caught a fleeting glimpseHenrys sly wink, Olivers boyish grin, the sunlight striping the faded curtainsand I remembered why every small quarrel about sheds or sofas or stubborn men had always been worth it.

After Oliver left, swinging the potato sack over his shoulder, Henry stood beside me at the sink. He nudged my arm gently, so only I could hear. You know, Margaret, Id have chosen the colour telly too.

I smiled, wiping my hands. And Id have chosen you every time, old fool.

Outside, Olivers laughter echoed down the lane, and the dust from his boots rose up in the summer aircarrying with it the unspoken promise that in our little family, the last word was never really about who got it, but about who remembered to listen. And that, I suppose, was the secret all along.

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When My Mother-in-Law Said, “This Flat Belongs to My Son,” I Was Already Holding the Keys to a Place She Will Never Control My mother-in-law had a gift—she could speak softly, as if stroking you with words, all while smothering you with them. She never shouted. She never openly insulted. She would simply “remind”: “Darling,” she would say with a smile, “just so you know… this apartment is my son’s. We’re just letting you live here.” She said it in front of guests. In front of relatives. Sometimes even strangers. As if I were something temporary. Like a rug you can beat and carry away when it suits you. And Nikolai—my husband—remained silent every time. And that silence hurt most. The first time I heard it, I was still new in the family. Trying to be good. To fit in. To keep the peace. My mother-in-law dropped it between two bites of salad, as though discussing the weather: “In our family, the property stays with the men. So it’s important a woman knows her place.” I smiled. 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I started collecting every receipt for every renovation—photographs, contracts, bank statements, before and after shots. And while my mother-in-law played caring, I just nodded. “Of course,” I’d say. “You’re right.” She calmed, and I worked. Late at night, while Nikolai slept, I read. I had a small notebook I carried everywhere—dates, sums, conversations, her lines. Not out of spite. Out of strategy. Two months later, I met with a solicitor. I didn’t tell Nikolai—not because I was lying, but because I didn’t want to hear: “Don’t. It’ll cause a scene.” I didn’t want a scene. I wanted a solution. The solicitor listened and said quietly, “You have two problems. One is legal; we can solve that. The other is emotional; only you can solve that.” I smiled. “I have already solved it.” One morning, Nikolai got a call and left angry. “It’s Mum again,” he said. “She wants us round tonight. Wants a ‘serious talk.'” I knew. 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Nikolai looked like a man realising for the first time that ‘family’ didn’t mean partnership. “But… why?” he whispered. “We’re family.” I looked at him steadily. “Exactly. Because family means respect. And I’ve been living where I was called ‘temporary.'” My mother-in-law tried to recover her act. “I’m only protecting it! I’m defending it! You’re nobody!” I smiled. “Yes. I was ‘nobody.’ Until I decided to become myself.” Then I brought out the folder. Invoices. Transactions. Contracts. “Here’s every penny I put into the flat you call ‘your son’s.’ From tomorrow, we’ll discuss this not at this table, but with solicitors.” Her face turned white. “You’d sue?! We’re family!” I stood. “Family isn’t about who controls me. Family is the right to be respected.” I picked up my bag. The keys jingled softly, but unmistakably, in my hand. “While you were ‘guarding the flat for your son’… I was guarding my life.” We stepped out. 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When My Mum Said, “We Raised You, Now You Owe Us,” I Had Already Signed the Contract for My Own Home In this world, some words sound like love… but they are actually chains. My mum always knew how to string them together beautifully. For a long time, I believed it was care. Until one day, I heard the truth—plain and unadorned. It was a Sunday. Late afternoon, when the sunlight is gentle and the silence in the room feels like ‘family comfort’. Those are the moments when people like to lay down conditions—because, over tea and biscuits, everything seems more innocent. I sat on the sofa in my childhood home. Where I once was a child. Where I believed I was safe. Mum was sitting opposite, clutching her notebook. Not a document. Not a folder. Just a hardback notebook where, for years, she’s written down “who owes what.” “Let’s talk seriously,” she said. “We raised you. Now you owe us.” Owe. The word fell onto the table like a coin. I didn’t flinch. I just looked at her. “Owe… to whom?” I asked quietly. She sighed theatrically, as if I were the ungrateful one. “To the family. To us. To the order.” Order. When someone says “order” without asking how you are… know they don’t care about you. They just care about keeping you in your place. The truth was, I’d been living in two realities for years. The first was mine: Work, exhaustion, dreams, small wins no one else saw. The second was theirs: Me as a project. Me as an investment. Me as a daughter who must “repay.” Dad sat in the corner and said nothing. As if listening to the news. As if it wasn’t about me. That masculine silence always bothered me most. Because it lets women be cruel. And my mum… she was calm. Confident. As if sure I couldn’t do anything about it. “We’ve decided,” she said. “You’ll sell what you have and help us buy a bigger house for us all. So we’ll be together.” “Together.” How nice that sounded. Except “together” in her dictionary meant “under control.” I looked at her and felt no anger building in me. Only clarity. The previous week, I’d done something I hadn’t told anyone. I’d signed the contract for a small flat. Nothing fancy. Nothing luxurious. But mine. A place where the keys wouldn’t be in someone else’s hands. And that was the difference between the old me and the new me: The old me would have explained herself. The new me simply acted. Mum leaned forward. “I know you have money. I see it. You dress well—you’re not poor. It’s time you gave back.” Time. It’s always “time” when someone wants to take your life and call it right. “I won’t sell anything,” I said calmly. She looked at me like I’d said a dirty word. “What?” “You heard me.” Dad finally stirred. “Don’t be so drastic…,” he muttered. “Your mother means well.” Means well. That’s how pressure is justified: call it “good intentions.” Mum laughed shortly. “You’ve become so modern. Independent. You don’t listen anymore.” “No,” I replied. “Now I can hear.” She tapped her pen on the notebook. “You don’t understand! Without us, you’d be nobody!” And at that moment, I felt something open inside my chest… like a quiet door. I finally heard the truth. Not love. Not care. Entitlement. And then I said the first line in the dialogue that set the boundary: “If your love has a price, it isn’t love.” Mum narrowed her eyes. “Oh, spare me the philosophy. Let’s talk about reality.” And there it was—the moment. I looked at her calmly and said: “Fine. Reality. I won’t live with you.” Silence. Total. Heavy. Like the pause before a blow. She smiled disdainfully. “And where will you live? Renting?” I looked at her and said simply: “In my own home.” She choked on her breath. “What ‘own home’?” “Mine.” “Since when?!” “Since the day I decided my life wasn’t your project.” I didn’t show them any keys. I didn’t wave symbols. It wasn’t a time for theatre. But I had something stronger. I took out from my bag a cream-coloured postal envelope—not an evidence bag, not a folder, not documents for the table. Just an ordinary parcel. With a stamp. With an address. In my name. Mum looked at it and her eyes widened. “What’s that?” “A letter,” I said. “From my new home.” She reached out but I didn’t hand it over right away. And then I said the final, nail-in-the-coffin line—quiet, but decisive: “While you were making plans about what you’d take from me, I signed my freedom.” Dad got up. “This is madness! Family should stick together!” Family. Funny how people talk about “family” only when they’re losing control. “Family should mean respect,” I replied. “Not debt.” Mum changed. Her face went hard. “So you’re abandoning us?” “No,” I corrected. “I’m just done with self-sacrifice.” She laughed with that sound people use when they can’t handle someone else’s freedom. “You’ll come crawling back.” “No,” I said calmly. “I’m leaving… and I won’t come back.” And then came the big scene—not a courtroom, not a bank, not an office. A family scene. Mum started to cry. But not as a mother. As a director. “After all I’ve done for you… this is how you repay me?” With those words, she wanted to squeeze me back into my old costume: the guilty daughter. But I wasn’t wearing it anymore. I got up, put on my coat, and stood by the door. That’s my symbol: the door. Not the scenes. The door. And then I said one symbolic sentence that sounded like the turn of a lock: “I’m not leaving you—I’m choosing myself.” She jumped up. “If you walk out, don’t you dare come back!” There. The truth. Conditions. I looked at her with a tenderness that isn’t weakness, but a last chance. “Mum… I’ve been gone for a long time. Today, I’m just saying it aloud.” Then I turned to Dad. “You could have protected me at least once.” He said nothing. Just like always. And that—was my answer. I left. My footsteps on the stairs weren’t angry. They were light. Outside the air was cold but clear. My phone vibrated—a message from Mum: “When you fail, don’t call me.” I didn’t reply. Some words don’t deserve an answer. They deserve a boundary. That evening, I went to my new place. Empty. No furniture. Just light and the smell of paint. But it was mine. I sat on the floor and opened the letter. Inside was nothing but a confirmation of my address. Nothing romantic. But to me, it was the most beautiful love note life could ever write: “This is where you begin.” The last line was short, punchy: I didn’t run away. I set myself free. ❓And you… if your family ever demanded your life “in the name of order,” would you obey… or would you close the door and choose yourself?
04
We’ve Still Got Things to Do at Home… Granny Val opened the garden gate with difficulty, limped her way to the door, fumbled with the old rusty lock, entered her chilly, unused cottage, and sat down on a chair by the cold stove. The air inside smelled abandoned. She had only been gone three months, but the ceilings were already thick with cobwebs, the old chair creaked in protest, wind howled in the chimney—the house greeted her grumpily: Where have you been, mistress? Who did you leave me with? How are we meant to survive the winter?! “I’m coming, my dear one, just let me rest a moment… I’ll get the fire going, we’ll warm up soon…” Only a year ago Granny Val bustled around her old home: whitewashing, touching up paint, fetching water. Her small, sprightly figure bowed before icons, worked at the stove, darted through the garden—planting, weeding, watering. The house thrived with her—floorboards cheerfully squeaked under her light steps, doors and windows flew open to a gentle touch, and the stove diligently baked delicious pies. They were happy together: Val and her old cottage. She buried her husband early, raised three children, educated them all and set them up out in the world. One son became a sea captain, one a colonel in the military—both live far away and rarely visit. Only her youngest, Tamara, stayed on in the village as head agronomist, working from dawn till dusk; she visits on Sundays with a pie and a hug, then disappears again for the week. Val’s comfort is her granddaughter, sweet little Sarah. You could say Sarah was raised by her granny. And what a beauty Sarah turned out to be! Big grey eyes, waist-long hair the colour of ripe wheat, curly, thick and shining—a real glow to it. She puts it up in a ponytail and the lads in the village are left speechless. Lithe and graceful—how did a village girl get such poise, such prettiness? Val herself was charming in her youth, but side by side with Sarah—she’s the shepherdess, Sarah’s the princess… And she’s clever, too. Sarah finished an agricultural degree in the city, returned home to work as an economist. Married the local vet, and thanks to a young families’ government scheme, they landed themselves a brand new home. And what a home! Sturdy, solid, all red brick. By village standards—a manor, not a house. But Granny Val’s house has its orchard—everything grows and blooms. Sarah’s new place—only three lonely sprigs in the garden. Growing things never came naturally to Sarah, gentle as she is, sheltered by her grandmother from every draft and heavy chore. Then little William was born, and there was no time for gardens. Sarah kept urging her granny: Come live with us! The house is big and modern, and you won’t have to light the fire. Val was beginning to feel her age—she turned eighty, and it’s like her body waited for the milestone to give up. Her once lively legs carried her less and less. So she agreed at last—lived with Sarah for a couple of months. Then one day she heard: “Gran, you know I love you—but all you do is sit! You’ve been on your feet all your life! Look at me—I want to set up a home, but I need your help…” “I can’t, darling, my legs have given out… I’m old now…” “Hm… got old as soon as you moved in with me, did you?” Not quite what Sarah hoped for; soon Granny, not much use anymore, was sent home. From then, stung by disappointment, Val’s health declined. Her feet shuffled slower and slower—tired from a lifetime of rushing. Getting from her bed to the table became a struggle, and getting to church—impossible. Father Brian, the parish priest, came to visit his once-most-active helper. He sized up the scene with a caring eye. Val was writing letters for her sons—her usual monthly updates. The cottage was chilly despite the stove being lit; the floor icy cold. She wore an old woolly cardigan, faded headscarf, and worn-out slippers—hardly the neat, proud woman she used to be. Father Brian sighed: she needed help. Maybe Anna, from nearby, still young enough to lend a hand? He brought bread, gingerbread, and half a warm fish pie (a gift from his wife, Alexandra). Rolling up his sleeves, he cleaned the stove, brought in armfuls of firewood, lit the fire, filled up a large blackened teapot. “Dearie me! Oh! I mean, Father—could you help me with these envelope addresses? My handwriting is chicken scratch—they’ll never arrive that way!” He wrote out the addresses neatly, throwing a glance at her letters—big, shaky writing: “I’m doing very well, my dear son. I have all I could want, thank God!” Letter after letter, the tales of Val’s ‘good life’ were all blurred with salty splotches. Anna took over looking after Val, while Father Brian visited regularly, bringing Communion; on big holidays, Anna’s husband would give Val a lift to church on his motorbike. Life settled a little. Sarah didn’t visit, and a few years on—she fell gravely ill. For ages, she’d blamed her stomach aches on ulcers, but it turned out to be lung cancer. Within six months, Sarah was gone. Her husband nearly moved onto the grave—drinking away his misery, sometimes sleeping at the cemetery. Four-year-old Will was left dirty, hungry, unwanted. Tamara took him in, but her job kept her busy, so Will was soon destined for boarding school. The place was decent, with a strong headteacher, good food, and weekend visits allowed. Not a real home, but Tamara couldn’t see any other way. Then, one day, Val came roaring up in Anna’s old motorbike sidecar, driven by their burly neighbour Peter, sailor tattoos and all. Both looked like they meant business. “I’m taking Will in with me,” she said. “Mum, you can barely walk! How will you manage a little boy? He needs feeding, washing—” “As long as I’m alive, Will isn’t going to a home,” Val insisted. Tamara, surprised at her usually gentle mum’s resolve, fell quiet and packed Will’s things. Peter bundled old and young into the sidecar, delivered them home. Neighbours clicked their tongues: “Kind old dear, but losing her wits—she needs caring for herself, and now she’s taken on a child? He’s no puppy! Where does Tamara get off, letting this happen?” After Sunday service, Father Brian visited, half-expecting to find a hungry, neglected Will to have to rescue. Instead, the house was warm, the stove ablaze. Will, clean and happy, listened to “The Gingerbread Boy” from an ancient record player, and the ‘frail old lady’ was bustling around the kitchen—greasing trays, kneading dough, cracking eggs for a cheese cake, as sprightly as she’d been years ago. “Father dear! I’ve just started cheese buns—wait a bit, there’ll be a treat for Alexandra and young Fraser, too!” Father Brian came home, amazed, and told Alexandra what he’d seen. She thought a moment, then reached for a big blue notebook, found a page, and read: “Old Nora had lived her long life well. All her hopes and dreams had drifted by, now sleeping beneath a snowy grave. One bitter February night, she prayed for ages in front of the icons, then lay down and told the family: ‘Call the priest—I’m dying.’ Her face went as white as the snow outside. The family called the priest, Nora confessed and took Holy Communion. She lay there, not eating or drinking, for a whole day—only the faintest breath showed her soul hadn’t flown. Suddenly, the front door opened—a blast of frosty air, a baby’s cry. ‘Hush—it’s Granny dying in here!’ ‘Well, I can’t silence a newborn, she doesn’t know any better!’ It was Nora’s granddaughter, Maggie, home from the hospital with her red-faced new baby. That morning everyone else had left for work, leaving Nana and the new mum alone. Maggie had barely any milk yet, couldn’t settle her daughter, and the baby screamed, utterly disturbing Nora’s dying. Nora lifted her head, focused her clouded eyes, and with effort, sat up, swung her bare feet onto the icy floor, feeling for her slippers. When the rest of the family rushed home, fearing the worst, they found Nora not only alive but far healthier than usual—walking the room, soothing the contented baby, while her exhausted granddaughter snoozed on the settee.” Alexandra closed the diary, smiled at her husband, and finished, “My great-gran, Vera, loved me so much, she just couldn’t let herself die yet. Like that old song says: ‘It’s far too early for us to leave—there’s still work to be done at home!’ She lived another ten years after that, helping my mum, your mother-in-law, raise me—her cherished great-granddaughter.” Father Brian smiled back at her.
05
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“Well, There You Go!” Exclaimed Alex. “That’s Right! The Final Word Should Always Belong to the Man” One Morning, Alex, the Adult Grandson Whose Wedding the Ephimovs Had Recently Attended, Arrived from the City for Potatoes, as He Always Helped His Beloved Grandparents to Plant and Dig Them. “Well, Tell Me, Alex, How’s Life with Your Svetlana?” Granny Asked Eagerly While Pottering by the Stove. “It’s… Mixed, Gran…” Alex Replied Reluctantly. “Sometimes Good, Sometimes Not So Much…” “Hold On a Minute,” Grandpa Ivan Piped Up. “What Do You Mean, ‘Mixed’? You Two Arguing Already?” “Well, Not Really Arguing Yet. We’re Just Trying to Decide Who’s Boss at Home,” Admitted Alex. “Honestly…” Granny Sighed with a Chuckle at the Stove, “That’s Not Hard to Work Out. It’s Obvious.” “Yes,” Laughed Grandpa, “Obviously, the Wife Is—and Always Will Be—the Head of the Household.” “Oh, Do Tell…” Came Granny’s Voice Again from the Stove. “Granddad, Are You Serious?” Alex Looked at Him in Surprise. “You’re Joking, Right?” “Not at All,” Ivan Replied. “If You Don’t Believe Me, Just Ask Your Granny. Go on, Catherine, Tell Him—Who Has the Last Word in Our House?” “Oh, Stop Talking Nonsense,” Granny Responded Good-Naturedly. “No, Go on, Say It,” Ivan Insisted. “Who Makes the Final Decisions—You or Me?” “Well, I Suppose I Do…” “How’s That?” Alex Looked Doubtful. “I’ve Never Noticed That Here. And Honestly, I’ve Always Thought the Man Should Be in Charge.” “Oh, Alex, You Silly Thing,” Grandpa Laughed Again. “That’s Not How It Works in a Real Family—Let Me Tell You a Couple of Stories, and You’ll See for Yourself.” Storytime “Here We Go…” Granny Grumbled. “He’s Bound to Bring Up the Motorbike Now.” “What Motorbike?” Alex Was Curious. “That Old Rust Bucket Rusting in the Shed,” Grandpa Confirmed. “It’s a Century Old by Now. Do You Know How Your Granny Made Me Buy It?” “Gran Made You?” “Yep! Gave Me Her Own Hard-Earned Money to Do It. But First, There Was Another Story…” Once, I Had Enough Money Saved to Buy a Motorbike with a Sidecar. I Told Catherine—Your Gran—I Wanted It to Carry Potatoes from the Field. Farms Used to Give Out Potato Plots Back Then. But Your Gran Put Her Foot Down. ‘Let’s Get a Colour TV Instead,’ She Said—they Were Costly Back Then. ‘You’ve Always Hauled Spuds on a Bicycle; Just Keep Doing That. Bag on the Bar, Off You Go.’ Fine, I Said, ‘Your Word Is Final.’ So, We Bought the TV. “What About the Motorbike?” Alex Was Puzzled. “We Got It—Eventually…” Granny Sighed. “But Not Until Later. Your Grandpa Put His Back Out and I Had to Cart Almost All the Potatoes Myself. After That, When We Sold the Pigs in November, I Gave Him All the Money and Told Him to Go Get the Bike.” “And Next Autumn,” Grandpa Continued, “We Came Into Some Money Again. I Wanted to Build a New Shed—the Old One’s Roof Had Rotted Away. But Your Gran Insisted on Buying Proper Furnishings to Look Like Everyone Else. Fine, I Said, ‘Your Word Is Final.’ So, We Bought the Furniture.” “And That Spring,” Granny Concluded, “The Old Shed Collapsed—Too Much Snow. From Then On, I Decided Whatever Ivan Told Me to Do, That’s How It Would Be.” “Well, There You Go!” Exclaimed Alex. “That Proves My Point—The Man Should Always Have the Final Say!” “Oh, Alex, You’re Missing the Whole Point!” Grandpa Laughed. “Every Time I Want Something Done, I Ask Her First—‘Fancy Me Rebuilding the Chimney, Love? Is That Alright?’ However She Decides, That’s How It Goes.” “And Since Then, I Always Tell Him, ‘Do What You Think Is Best,’” Granny Added. “So, You See, Alex,” Grandpa Concluded, “In the End, It’s Always Best if the Wife Has the Final Say. Do You Understand Now?” Alex Went Quiet, Then Burst Out Laughing. After He Stopped, He Seemed to Think Deeply, His Face Eventually Brightening. “Now I Get It, Granddad. When I Get Home I’ll Say: ‘Alright, Sveta, Let’s Holiday in Turkey Like You Want. I Won’t Get the Car Fixed Just Yet, Even Though the Automatic’s Playing Up. If the Car Breaks Down, So What? We’ll Catch the Bus to Work All Winter—Just Means Getting Up an Hour Earlier. That’s No Big Deal, Right?’ Is That the Right Way to Look at It, Granddad?” “Absolutely Spot On,” Grandpa Nodded with a Grin. “And Give It a Year or Two, You’ll Find That Harmony in Your Own Family, Too. After All, It’s Always Best When the Wife Is in Charge. Keeps the Husband Happy, I Can Tell You from Experience…”