Well, Your Precious Anastasia Has Gotten So Pompous! You Know What They Say—Money Changes People! I Had No Idea What Was Going On or How I’d Offended Anyone Once, I had a wonderful marriage—a loving husband and two great kids. Then everything fell apart in an instant when my beloved died in a car accident on the way home from work. The grief was almost unbearable, but my mum insisted I hold myself together for the children. So I did. I began working tirelessly and, when my kids grew up, I travelled abroad for work to support them, as I had no help at all. That’s how I ended up in Poland, and then in England. I changed jobs many times before earning a decent living. I sent money home every month, eventually bought my children their own flats, and renovated my own place. I was proud of myself and planned to return to Ukraine forever. But last year my life changed when I met a man—a fellow Ukrainian who’d lived in England for twenty years. We began talking, and I wondered if something real could blossom. But doubts haunted me. Artur couldn’t move back to Ukraine, and I wanted to go home. Recently, I finally returned, first meeting with my children and parents, but had no time to visit my in-laws. One day, my friend who works as a shop assistant came to tell me: —Your mother-in-law is upset with you! —How do you know? —I overheard her saying you’ve become arrogant and money has turned your heart. Plus, you never helped them financially. Hearing this hurt deeply. I raised two kids alone and did everything for them—I couldn’t afford to support my late husband’s parents too. I needed something for myself, you know? After that, I didn’t want to see my in-laws. But I forced myself, bought groceries, and visited. At first, all was well, but thoughts of the conversation stuck with me, so I said: —You know, life wasn’t easy all these years. I did everything for my kids because I had no one else to rely on. —We had no help either. Everyone else’s children support them, but we’re on our own—like orphans! You should return and look after us. My mother-in-law made me feel ashamed. I couldn’t even bring myself to admit I have a partner in England. I left, feeling heavy-hearted. Now I don’t know what to do. Am I really obligated to support my late husband’s parents? I just can’t take it anymore!

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

Well, your Emily is quite stuck-up now! They say money ruins people, and it surely has changed her! I couldnt understand where all this was coming from, or what Id done to offend anyone so much.

There was a time when I had a wonderful marriage: a loving husband and our two children. But one day, everything fell apart. My dear Tom was on his way home from work when he had a terrible accident. I genuinely believed I wouldnt survive the grief, but Mum was steadfastshe was adamant that I had to pull myself together for the sake of my children. So I did just that. I threw myself into work with everything I had. When the kids were older, I left to find better work, first in Birmingham and then further afield in London. I had to make sure they had a sound footing since I had no support whatsoever.

I went through a parade of different jobs before finally earning well enough. Month after month, Id send money home to the kids, and eventually I was able to buy them their own flats and refurbish mine splendidly. I felt proud of what Id accomplished. Id even started to imagine returning home for good. But last year, my life changed againI met a man. Hes British by birth but has lived in London for over twenty years now. We got talking and, to my surprise, something real developed between us.

Still, uncertainty gnawed at me. David couldnt leave England, but I longed to return home. This week, I finally made the trip back. I saw the children first, then my parents, but kept putting off visiting Toms parentsthere were simply too many other things to do. Then, my friend Abby, who works as a shop assistant, came round and shared a bit of news:

Your mother-in-law is really upset with you!

How do you know that?

Overheard her telling the neighbours, saying youve grown so high and mighty, and that moneys ruined you. She even said you never gave them any financial help.

It was painful to listen to. I raised two children by myself and did everything for themI just couldnt afford to also support Toms parents. I had to look after myself a bit, didnt I?

After hearing all that, my intention of visiting the in-laws faded. But I forced myself. I bought a generous supply of groceries and went over. At first, it went smoothly, but that conversation haunted me until I finally spoke up:

Please understand it wasnt easy for me all these years. Everything I did was for my children, because I couldnt rely on help from anywhere.

We had no support either. Most peoples children help them out, but were left to cope alone. Were just orphans too! You ought to come back and look after us.

Toms mum made me feel so ashamed. I couldnt even bring myself to mention David back in London. I left feeling miserable, and now I honestly dont know what to do. Am I truly obligated to help my late husbands parents? Im just at my wits end.

— Dad, let me introduce you to my future wife, and your daughter-in-law, Barbara! — Boris beamed with happiness. — Who?! — Professor, Doctor of Science, Dr. Roman Philimore exclaimed in surprise. — If this is a joke, it’s not very funny! The man observed the nails on Barbara’s rough fingers with disgust. He was convinced this young woman had no concept of soap and water. How else to explain the ingrained dirt beneath her nails? “My God! Thank goodness my Laura never lived to see such disgrace! We tried so hard to teach this lad proper manners,” flashed through his mind. — I’m not joking! — Boris declared defiantly. — Barbara will be staying with us, and we’re getting married in three months. If you refuse to take part in your own son’s wedding, I’ll do without you! — Hello! — Barbara smiled, heading straight to the kitchen as if it were her own. — I’ve brought pasties, homemade raspberry jam, dried mushrooms… — she rattled off the goods from her battered carrier bag. Roman Philimore clutched his heart as he watched Barbara stain the pristine hand-embroidered tablecloth with the leaking jam. — Boris! Are you mad? If you’re doing this just to spite me, then don’t bother… This is too much! Which village did you drag this uncouth girl from? I will not allow her to live in my house! — the professor howled in despair. — I love Barbara. And as my wife, she has every right to live here! — Boris smirked sarcastically. Roman Philimore realised his son was deliberately tormenting him. Refusing to continue the argument, he silently retreated to his room. Relations with his son had grown strained recently. After his mother’s death, Boris became uncontrollable—quitting university, mouthing off to his father, and living a wild, carefree life. Roman Philimore had hoped his son would change, would return to his old, thoughtful and kind self. But with each day Boris grew more distant. Now he’d brought this country girl to their home, fully aware his father would never approve. Not long after, Boris and Barbara married. Roman Philimore refused to attend, unwilling to accept the daughter-in-law he so disliked. He was angry that the spot once held by Laura, an excellent homemaker, wife, and mother, was now occupied by an uneducated girl with poor manners and little conversation. Barbara seemed oblivious to her father-in-law’s disapproval, doing her best to please him—only to make things worse. The man couldn’t see a single positive quality in her, solely because of her lack of education and refinement… Eventually, Boris grew bored of playing the devoted husband, resuming his drinking and partying. The father often overheard their arguments, secretly pleased, hoping Barbara would leave for good. — Dr. Philimore! — his daughter-in-law burst in one day, crying. — Boris wants a divorce—he’s throwing me out, and I’m pregnant! — Why the street? You’re not homeless… Go back to where you came from. Being pregnant doesn’t give you the right to stay after the divorce. Sorry, but I won’t meddle in your affairs, — he replied, inwardly relieved to be rid of her. Barbara wept in despair as she packed. She couldn’t understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or why Boris treated her like a stray only to toss her out. So what if she was from the countryside? She had feelings too… *** Eight years passed… Roman Philimore now lived in a care home. The elderly man’s health declined sharply in recent years. Boris wasted no time relocating his father, eager to free himself from responsibility. The old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no alternative. After a long career instilling values of love, respect, and care in thousands—receiving letters of gratitude from former students—he’d failed to raise his own son as a decent human being… — Roman, you’ve got visitors — his roommate announced, returning from his stroll. — Who? Boris? — the old man blurted out, though in his heart he knew it was impossible. His son never visited, he hated his father too deeply… — No idea. The nurse asked me to fetch you. Why are you sitting there? Go quickly! — the roommate smiled. Roman grabbed his cane and slowly left his tiny, stuffy room. Descending the stairs, he saw her from afar—recognising her instantly, even after so many years. — Hello, Barbara! — he said quietly, lowering his head in guilt. To this day, he felt sorry for the sincere young woman he hadn’t protected eight years ago… — Dr. Philimore?! — Barbara, now rosy-cheeked, exclaimed in surprise. — You’ve changed so much… Are you ill? — A bit… — he replied sadly. — How did you find me here? — Boris told me. You know he wants nothing to do with his son, and Ivan is always asking to visit his dad or his granddad… It’s not Ivan’s fault you don’t accept him. He needs family. We’re all alone, — she said, voice trembling. — Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have come. — Wait! — the old man pleaded. — How old is Ivan now? Last photo you sent, he was just three. — He’s here, by the entrance. Shall I call him? — Barbara asked hesitantly. — Of course, my dear, go ahead! — Roman Philimore brightened. In walked a ginger-haired boy—a miniature Boris. Ivan approached the grandfather he’d never met before, hesitantly. — Hello, little one! My, you’ve grown… — the old man teared up, hugging his grandson. They walked for a long time through the autumn park bordering the care home, Barbara recounting her hard life since her mother’s early death and all she’d done to raise her son and keep the household running. — Forgive me, Barbara! I was terribly wrong. Despite considering myself an educated man, it’s only now I’ve realised: people should be valued not for their intellect or manners, but for their sincerity and soul, — the old man admitted. — Dr. Philimore! We have a proposition, — Barbara began nervously. — Come live with us! You’re alone, and Ivan and I are alone too… It would be wonderful to have real family nearby. — Grandad, come stay! We can go fishing together, hunt for mushrooms… The countryside’s beautiful, and we’ve plenty of room! — Ivan pleaded, clutching his grandfather’s hand. — I’ll come! — Roman Philimore smiled. — I’ve missed out raising my own son, but I hope I can give you what Boris never got. And I’ve never lived in the country before. Maybe I’ll love it! — You definitely will! — Ivan laughed.

The Lonely Heart of a Cat: Abandoned and Lost, Wondering Why His Beloved Owner Left Him—Barney the British Shorthair’s Journey to Find His Way Home When Lesley received a pitch-black British shorthair kitten at her housewarming party, she was stunned… Her modest one-bedroom resale flat, which she had scraped together to buy, was still bare, with plenty of issues demanding her attention. Then came the kitten. Recovering from the shock, she gazed into the little one’s amber eyes, sighed, smiled, and asked the person who’d brought him: — Is it a tom or a queen? — A tom! — Well then, you’ll be Barney, said Lesley to the kitten. He opened his tiny mouth and obediently squeaked, “Meow”… ***** It turned out British shorthairs make rather comfortable companions. Three years on, Lesley and Barney lived in perfect harmony. In fact, it soon became clear that Barney had a touching soul and a big heart. He greeted her cheerfully after work, warmed her at night, watched movies cuddled up beside her, and trotted after her at cleaning time. Her life with a cat bloomed with colour. How nice it is to have someone waiting at home, someone to laugh or cry with—and most of all, someone who understands you with half a word. It seemed she could be happy, and yet… Recently, Lesley began to notice pain in her right side. At first, she blamed an awkward twist or rich food. But as the pain worsened, she went to the doctor. When the doctor delivered the diagnosis, explaining what lay ahead, Lesley cried into her pillow all evening. Barney snuggled close, sensing her pain, and tried to soothe her with melodic purrs. Listening to Barney’s purring, Lesley drifted into sleep. By morning, resigned to fate, she decided not to tell her family about the illness—to avoid pitiful glances or awkward offers of help. Yet deep inside, she hoped the doctors could help. She was offered a course of treatment that might improve her prognosis. But then she faced the question: What should she do with the cat? Fearing tragedy, Lesley set about finding Barney a new loving home. She posted online that she was giving away a pedigree British shorthair. When the first caller asked why she was rehoming her adult cat, Lesley—without knowing why—claimed she was expecting a baby and had developed an allergy to cat hair during pregnancy. Three days later, Barney and all his belongings went off to his new owners. Lesley entered the hospital… Two days passed before she rang Barney’s new owners and asked how he was. They apologised repeatedly, saying the cat had escaped that very evening and they couldn’t find him. Her first impulse was to escape the hospital and search for her cat. She even pleaded with the duty nurse to let her out, only to be sternly sent back to her ward. A thin elderly lady sharing her room saw Lesley’s distress and asked what was wrong. Through tears, Lesley told her everything. “Don’t give up hope yet, dear,” said the lady, “Tomorrow a top London consultant is coming. My son—he’s quite successful—arranged it for me, but I’m staying put. I’ll ask this doctor to see you too. Maybe things aren’t so dire,” she soothed, gently patting Lesley’s shoulder. **** As Barney emerged from the carrier, he realised he was in a strange house, and when a stranger reached out to stroke him… His nerves snapped, and he lashed out before bolting for the darkest corner. — Paul, don’t touch him just yet—let him settle, said a gentle woman’s voice, but it wasn’t his owner’s voice. Barney’s heart thudded in his chest, thoughts scattered, his little soul ached. What could have happened, he wondered, that his person gave him away, why did she abandon him? His amber eyes darted around the room in fear until they spotted an open window. In a flash, Barney leapt out! Thankfully, it was just the second floor and a neatly kept lawn below. And so began Barney’s journey home… ***** The consultant came to see Lesley—a kind-faced woman in her early forties, Dr Mary Paveley. She studied Lesley’s notes, asked questions, pressed and tapped, sought out the pain; then she repeated her checks with medical equipment. Lesley expected nothing good. When she returned to her bed, her roommate asked anxiously: — So, what did they say? — Nothing yet; she said she’ll come back to the ward. — I see. Not so lucky for me; she confirmed my diagnosis, said the older woman sadly. — I’m so sorry, and thank you for everything, said Lesley, unsure how to comfort someone in her position. Half an hour later, Dr Paveley returned, accompanied by other doctors. — Lesley, I have great news, she smiled. Your illness is perfectly treatable. I’ve arranged a course—just a two-week stay, you’ll have treatment, and you’ll be healthy again. When the doctors left, her roommate said, “That’s wonderful. I’m glad I managed to do one last good deed before I depart. Be happy, dear.” ***** Barney had no guiding star; he simply followed his feline instincts, making his way through peril and adventure. Not knowing the streets, the once-noble British shorthair transformed in a day into a sharp-witted hunter. Dodging busy roads and noisy crowds, sprinting, crawling, leaping as if he were flying (especially when dodging dogs), swiftly climbing trees, Barney pressed onward. In one quiet courtyard, stunned by roadside noise, Barney met a scruffy old tom. The alley cat didn’t hesitate, instantly recognising Barney as an outsider, and lunged at him. Barney, shedding his aristocratic air for a streetwise bravado, held his ground. The skirmish ended quickly—Barney sent the neighbourhood boss scurrying away, leaving behind a slightly torn ear as a memento. After all, the alley cat had merely wanted to show who was in charge. Barney, though, was heading home—nothing could stop him. His journey continued. Channeling his distant ancestors, he took to sleeping in tree forks. Embarrassed as he was, Barney learned to scavenge from bins and even pilfer food from other strays, secretly fed by kind neighbours. Once, he was cornered by a pack of mongrels. They drove him up a shaky sapling, barking and leaping at the trunk. Locals came running to the hubbub, chased the dogs off. A kindly woman tried to lure Barney with sausage. Desperate and hungry, Barney gave in; he let her stroke and carry him. However… Once he’d rested and eaten, he remembered his quest, slipped out behind her through an open door, and dashed off once again to find home… ***** After her hospital discharge, Lesley went straight home, repeating the older woman’s wish for happiness in her mind. Of course, she rejoiced in her recovery. But her heart ached for Barney—she couldn’t imagine returning to an empty flat, with no one to greet her. The moment she crossed her threshold, she phoned Barney’s former new owners for their exact address. Arriving, she heard how Barney had escaped, and set out to retrace his path. She was told it was hopeless: two weeks had passed, and it was unlikely a house cat could survive. But Lesley refused to believe it. She searched every yard, combed nearby parks and garages, trying to think like an inexperienced street cat. She called for Barney, peering into dim cellar windows. As she neared her own building, she accepted that he had truly vanished; after all, how could he, unfamiliar with the city, make it so far? Entering her own courtyard, Lesley felt tears prick her eyes, her heart heavy and sore. Through the blur, she spotted a black cat ambling toward her on the opposite pavement. “A black cat…” flickered through her mind. Lesley stopped, gazing closer—and realised. She bolted forward, shouting, “Barney!” But the cat couldn’t run—he hadn’t the strength. He simply sat, squinting with joy, and softly squeaked: “I made it!”

“I Won’t Have Any Other Daughter-in-Law, So Do as You Please!” – A Mother Tells Her Son Mark had just finished university and decided it was the perfect time to marry his high school sweetheart, Emma! Emma was beautiful, but more than that, she was a kind and intelligent girl, currently writing her master’s thesis. The young couple agreed to tie the knot as soon as she completed her studies. Mark decided to tell his mother about their plans, but she had bad news for him. She declared that he must marry Amanda from next door, or no one at all. She asked him what mattered more: career or love? His mother dreamed of her son becoming a success. Amanda came from a wealthy family and had fancied Mark for ages, but he only had eyes for Emma, who came from a troubled home. Emma’s mother had a terrible reputation… What would people say? “I don’t want any other daughter-in-law, so do as you wish!” Mark’s mother told him. Mark pleaded with his mother for a long time, but she was firm—if he married Emma, she would disown him. Mark lost his nerve. He kept seeing Emma for six more months, but their love slowly faded. In the end, he married Amanda. She truly loved him, but they skipped a wedding reception because Mark didn’t want Emma to see his wedding photos. Amanda’s family was well-off, so Mark moved into her parents’ big house, who also helped him climb the career ladder. But he was never happy. He didn’t want children. When Amanda realised she couldn’t change his mind, she filed for divorce. By then, Mark was forty, Amanda thirty-eight. Amanda later remarried, had a child, and found real happiness. Mark had always dreamed of being with Emma and tried to find her, but to no avail—she seemed to have disappeared. Later he discovered she had married the first man who came along after their breakup—a scoundrel who beat her to death. After that, Mark moved into his parents’ old flat and drank himself to oblivion, always gazing at Emma’s photo, never able to forgive his mother.

Well, Your Ann Has Become Awfully Stuck-Up! People Say Money Spoils You, and Now I Don’t Even Understand What I Did to Offend Anyone Once Upon a Time, I Had a Wonderful Marriage—A Loving Husband and Two Kids—Until Everything Fell Apart the Day My Husband Was Killed in a Car Accident. The Grief Was Almost Too Much, but Mum Told Me I Had to Stay Strong for My Children. I Threw Myself Into Work, and, When My Kids Grew Up, Headed Abroad to Earn Money, as I Had No Support at All. First, I Landed in Poland, Then Came to England. I Changed Countless Jobs Before Finally Making Decent Money. I Sent Money Home Every Month, Eventually Bought Each Child a Flat, and Refurbished My Own Place. I Was So Proud of Myself and Even Thought of Moving Back to Ukraine for Good. But Last Year, Everything Changed When I Met a Man—A Fellow Ukrainian Who’s Lived in England for Twenty Years. We Hit It Off, and I Started to See a Future With Him. But Doubt Festers. Arthur Can’t Move Back to Ukraine, While My Heart Longs for Home. Recently, I Returned and Reunited First With My Kids, Then My Parents. Only My Late Husband’s Parents I Couldn’t Quite Visit—I Had Too Many Things On. Then My Friend, a Local Shop Assistant, Came By and Told Me This: “Your Mother-in-Law Is Really Upset With You!” “How Do You Know?” “I Overheard Her Talking to Someone—She Said You’ve Gone Posh, That Money’s Changed You, and That You Never Send Them Any Help.” Hearing That Hurt So Much. I Raised My Kids Alone and Gave Them Everything—I Couldn’t Possibly Support My In-Laws Too. I Needed Something for Myself, Didn’t I? After That, I Didn’t Want to Visit, But I Forced Myself. I Brought a Shopping Bag Full of Food and Went Over. It Started Fine, But I Couldn’t Forget That Conversation, and Finally I Said: “Don’t You Understand How Hard Life Was? I Did Everything for the Kids Because I Had No One to Help Me.” “But We’ve Had No Support Either,” She Said. “Everyone Else’s Children Help Them—But We’re Left Alone. You Should’ve Moved Back and Helped Us!” My Mother-in-Law Really Shamed Me. I Didn’t Even Dare Mention I Have a Partner in England. I Left Their House Upset, Now Unsure What to Do Next. Am I Truly Obliged to Look After My Late Husband’s Parents Too? I’m at My Wits’ End!

You Should Give Notice—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?! – My Mother-in-Law Shouted I’m a Daughter-in-Law: Ordinary, Working, and Unpretentious. My Husband and I Own Our London Flat, Juggling the Mortgage, Council Tax, and Jobs from Dawn to Dusk. My Mother-in-Law Lives in the Countryside, Along with My Sister-in-Law. It Would Be Fine if They Hadn’t Decided Our Flat Was Their Weekend Retreat. At First, It Seemed Sweet: “We’ll Pop By on Saturday.” “Just a Quick Visit.” “We’re Family After All.” But “Quick Visit” Means Staying the Night; “Pop By” Comes with Bags, Empty Pans, and Eyes Expecting a Feast. Every Weekend It’s The Same: After Work I Dash to the Shops, Cook, Clean, Lay the Table, Smile, and Spend Half the Night Washing Up. Valentina Sits and Gives Her Comments: “Why Is There No Sweetcorn in the Salad?” “I Prefer My Soup Thicker.” “We Don’t Do It Like This in the Country.” And My Sister-in-Law Adds: “Oh, I’m So Exhausted from the Journey.” “And No Dessert?” And Not Once: “Thank You,” or “Can I Help?” One Day I’d Had Enough and Told My Husband: “I’m Not a Housemaid, and I Don’t Want to Spend Every Weekend Waiting on Your Family.” “Maybe We Should Really Do Something About It,” He Agreed. Then I Had an Idea. Next Time, My Mother-in-Law Called: “We’re Coming Over on Saturday.” “Oh, We’ve Got Plans for the Weekend,” I Said Calmly. “What Plans?” “Just Our Own.” And Guess What? This Time We Really Did Have Plans—We Went to Valentina’s Place. On Saturday Morning, My Husband and I Were Standing in Her Garden. Valentina Opened the Door—Stunned. “What’s Going On?!” “We’ve Come to Visit. Just For a Short While.” “You Should Give Notice—I Didn’t Prepare Anything! Do You Know How Much It Costs to Host Guests?!” I Looked Her in the Eye and Said Calmly: “See, This Is My Life Every Weekend.” “So You Wanted to Teach Me a Lesson?! How Rude!” She Made Such a Fuss, The Whole Neighbourhood Stared and We Went Home. And You Know What? From That Day On—No More Visits Without an Invitation. No More “We’ll Just Pop By” or Weekend Marathons in My Kitchen. Sometimes, If You Want to Be Heard, You Just Need to Show People How It Feels to Be in Your Shoes. Did I Do the Right Thing? What Would You Do in My Place?

“— Michael, we’ve been waiting five years. Five. The doctors said we’d never have children. But now… — Michael, look! — I froze by the garden gate, unable to believe my eyes. My husband awkwardly stepped inside, bent beneath the weight of a bucket of fish. The cool July morning chilled to the bone, but what I saw on the bench made me forget the cold. — What’s there? — Michael set the bucket down and came over. On our old bench by the fence stood a woven basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded blanket, lay a child. His huge brown eyes stared straight at me—without fear, without curiosity, just stared. — My God, — Michael breathed, — where did he come from? I gently ran my finger through his dark hair. The little boy didn’t stir, didn’t cry—just blinked. In his tiny fist was a piece of paper. I carefully unfolded his fingers and read the note: “Please help him. I just can’t. I’m sorry.” — We need to call the police, — Michael frowned, scratching his head, — and let the council know. But I’d already scooped the baby into my arms, holding him close. He smelled of dusty roads and unwashed hair. His dungarees were worn, but clean. — Anna, — Michael looked at me in worry, — we can’t just take him. — Yes, we can, — I met his gaze. — Michael, we waited five years. Five. The doctors said we’d never have children. But now… — But there are laws, papers… The parents might come back, — he protested. I shook my head: They won’t. I can feel it—they won’t. The boy suddenly smiled wide at me, as if he understood our conversation. And that was enough. Through friends, we arranged for guardianship and paperwork. Nineteen ninety-three was a hard year. Within a week, we noticed something odd. The boy I named Eli didn’t react to sounds. At first, we thought he was just thoughtful, lost in his own world. But when the neighbour’s tractor rattled by the window and Eli didn’t so much as flinch, my heart clenched. — Michael, he can’t hear, — I whispered one night as I laid Eli in an old cradle passed down from my nephew. Michael stared long at the fire, then sighed: We’ll take him to Dr. Nicholas at Riverside. The doctor examined Eli, then shook his head: Congenital deafness. Complete. Surgery isn’t possible—not in this case. I cried all the way home. Michael was silent, his knuckles white on the wheel. That night, after Eli was asleep, he fetched a bottle from the cupboard. — Michael, maybe don’t… — No, — he poured half a glass and downed it in one. — We’re not giving him up. — Who? — Him. We won’t send him away, — he said firmly. — We’ll cope ourselves. — But how? How do we teach him how to…? Michael cut me off with a gesture: — If needs be—you’ll learn. You’re a teacher. You’ll figure something out. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking: “How do you teach a child who can’t hear? How do you give him everything he needs?” By dawn it hit me: he has eyes, hands, a heart. That’s enough. The next day I took out a notebook and started a plan. Find books. Invent ways to teach without sounds. From that moment, our lives changed forever. That autumn, Eli turned ten. He sat by the window, drawing sunflowers. In his sketchbook they weren’t just flowers—they danced, swirling in their own secret ballet. — Michael, look, — I touched my husband as I entered the room. — Yellow again. He’s happy today. Over the years, Eli and I learned to understand each other. I mastered fingerspelling, then sign language. Michael was slower with it, but the most important words—“son”, “love”, “pride”—he learned straight away. There was no school for children like Eli, so I taught him at home. He picked up reading quickly: alphabet, syllables, words. He learned to count even faster. But most of all—he painted. Everywhere, on everything he could find. First, his finger on steamy window glass. Then on a board Michael patched together for him. Later—paints on paper and canvas. I ordered paints from town by post, scrimping on myself so Eli could have good materials. — That mute of yours scribbling away again? — our neighbour Sam snorted from over the fence. — What good will it do? Michael raised his head from the vegetable patch: — What use are you, Sam, besides flapping your tongue? It wasn’t easy with the village folk. They didn’t understand us. They teased Eli, called him names. Especially—the children. One day he came home with his shirt torn and a scratch on his cheek. Quietly, he showed me who did it—Colin, the son of the village boss. I wept, tending his wound. Eli wiped my tears with his fingers and smiled, as if to say don’t worry, it’s fine. That night Michael disappeared. He came back late, didn’t say a word, but there was a bruised eye. After that, nobody bothered Eli again. By his teens, Eli’s artwork changed. A style appeared—strange, as if from another world. He painted a world without sound, but in those works was such depth it took your breath away. Every wall in the house was covered with his paintings. Once, an inspection team came from the council to check my home schooling. A stern-faced lady entered the house, saw the art, and stopped in her tracks. — Who did these? — she whispered. — My son, — I said, with pride. — You must show these to experts, — she removed her glasses. — Your boy… he has a real gift. But we were afraid. The world outside the village seemed huge, dangerous for Eli. How would he manage without us, without familiar gestures and signs? — We’ll go, — I insisted, packing his things. — It’s the district artists’ fair. You must show your work. Eli was now seventeen. Tall, thin, long-fingered, with a keen gaze that seemed to notice everything. He nodded reluctantly—there was no point arguing with me. At the fair, his pictures were hung in a far corner. Five small paintings—fields, birds, hands holding the sun. People drifted past, glancing without stopping. Then she appeared—a grey-haired woman with upright posture and sharp eyes. She spent ages in front of the paintings, unmoving. Then whirled round to me. — Are these yours? — My son’s, — I nodded to Eli, who stood beside me, arms crossed. — He doesn’t hear? — she asked, noticing how we signed. — No, since birth. She nodded: — I’m Vera Sterling, from the London Art Gallery. This piece… — she paused, gazing at the smallest picture, sunset over a field. — It has something most artists spend years chasing. I want to buy it. Eli froze, searching my face while I clumsily translated her words with signs. His fingers trembled, doubt flickered in his eyes. — You seriously won’t consider selling? — her voice had that relentless professional edge, someone who knows the value of art. — We never… — I faltered, blushing. — We never thought of selling. It’s just his soul on canvas. She took a leather purse and, without haggling, counted out a sum it would take Michael six months to earn. A week later, she came for another—hands cradling the sunrise. By mid-autumn, the postman brought a letter. “In your son’s work is rare honesty. Profound understanding without words. That is the kind of art collectors crave today.” The capital greeted us with grey streets and cold glances. The gallery was a tiny space in an old building somewhere off the main road. But every day, people came with intent eyes. They studied the paintings, discussed composition and colour. Eli kept his distance, watching lips and gestures. He never heard the words, but expressions spoke for themselves: something special was happening. Then the grants began—internships, features in magazines. He was nicknamed “The Artist of Silence.” His works—silent cries of the heart—found an echo in every viewer. Three years passed. Tears streamed as Michael saw our son off to his own solo exhibition. I tried to hide my feelings, but inside I was humming. Our boy was grown. Independent. Yet he came back. One sunny day, he appeared on the doorstep with an armful of wildflowers. He hugged us, took our hands and led us through the village as neighbours watched, to a distant field. There stood a House. New, white, with a balcony and huge windows. The whole village had wondered about the wealthy man building here, but nobody knew the owner. — What is this? — I whispered, stunned. Eli smiled, produced keys. Inside, bright rooms, a studio, bookshelves, new furniture. — Son, — Michael looked around, shaken, — is this… your house? Eli shook his head and signed: “Ours. Yours and mine.” Then he led us outside, where on the wall was a huge painting: a basket by the gate, a woman with a radiant face holding a child, and, signed above in gestures, “Thank you, Mum.” I froze, unable to move. Tears fell and I let them. Michael, always reserved, suddenly stepped forward and hugged his son so tightly he could barely breathe. Eli squeezed back, then held out a hand to me. That day, we stood together in the field, under the open sky by our new home. Now Eli’s paintings hang in the world’s finest galleries. He opened a school for deaf children in the city and funds outreach programs. The village is proud—our Eli, who hears with his heart. And we, Michael and I, live in that same white house. Every morning I step out with a cup of tea and look at the picture on the wall. Sometimes I wonder—what if we hadn’t gone out that July morning? What if I’d missed him? What if I’d been scared? Eli now lives in town, in a big flat, but comes home every weekend. He hugs me and all doubts melt away. He’ll never hear my voice. But he knows every word. He’ll never hear music, but he creates his own—from paint and line. And seeing his happy smile, I realise—sometimes the most important moments in life happen in total silence. Leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments below!