What About the Flat? You Promised Me! You’re Ruining My Life!

Author Emily TaylorReading 3 minViews 1

What about the flat? You promised me! Youre ruining my life!

My husband and I were over the moon when we found out our son was getting married. Before the wedding, we privately told him that we intended to give him a flat as a present. Thomas was thrilled once he heard about our plans. The news spread quickly among all his mates that very same day. As we were eagerly preparing for the wedding, disaster suddenly struck.

Our daughter was rushed to the hospital straight from work, having fallen ill out of the blue. My husband and I dashed over as soon as we got the call. Tests revealed she had a tumour and needed immediate surgery. Of course, the operation cost a fortune, and we had to find the money as soon as possible. Thank goodness we caught it when we did.

Buying a flat for Thomas was out of the question at that point. We scrambled to gather the funds for her treatment. Thankfully, our family and friends rallied around usthey simply couldnt stand by and do nothing. Everyone chipped in what they could. Some even gave us money and told us not to bother returning it. Together, we managed to raise enough for the operation.

Then our son floored us with what he said.

Whats happening with my flat? You promised! Youre ruining my life.

After hearing Thomas say that, I nearly fainted on the spot. How could he say such a thing? How could he be so self-centred? Shes his sister. They grew up side by side. How could he possibly see his sisters wedding and life-saving surgery as equal priorities? I was lost for words. But Thomas wouldnt let it go.

Why does she get everything and I get nothing?

I reached breaking point and started yelling at him. I told him I didnt want to see him anymore. He packed up his things and left to stay with his fiancée. We didnt speak for a fortnight.

Meanwhile, my daughter had her surgery. Luckily, the operation was a success. She came home a few weeks later. I deliberately said nothing to her about her brothers behaviour. It was shameful. There was no need to add to her worries. And in all this time, Thomas never called, not once. He didnt even bother to ask how his sister was doing. Apparently, having a place to live is far more important to him than his own family.

Wow, Dad, what a welcome! Why bother with a spa retreat when home is practically ‘all inclusive’? When James handed Eva the keys to his flat, she realised: victory was hers. Not even Leonardo DiCaprio waited for his Oscar like Eva waited for her James—complete with her very own nest. Desperate and thirty-five, Eva found herself throwing sympathetic glances at stray cats and scoping out craft shop windows more often. Then appeared James—single, having spent his youth on his career, healthy eating, the gym, and other nonsense like soul searching, and childless to boot. Eva had been wishing for this since she was twenty, and somewhere up above, they finally understood she wasn’t joking. “My last business trip of the year, and after that I’m all yours,” James said, handing over the treasured keys. “Just don’t be startled by my bachelor’s den—I only come home to sleep,” he added, hurrying off to another time zone for the weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush, her face cream, and set off to check out the bachelor pad. The problems started right at the door. James had warned the lock sometimes stuck, but Eva hadn’t thought it was this bad. She spent forty minutes storming the entrance: pushing, pulling, carefully inserting the key—trying every trick her schoolyard mates taught her back in the day. All the noise opened a neighbour’s door. “Why are you trying to break into someone else’s flat?” a concerned woman asked. “I’m not! I’ve got the keys!” snapped Eva, wiping sweat from her brow. “And you are? I’ve never seen you before.” “I’m his girlfriend!” Eva declared, hands on hips, but only a crack in the door met her challenge. “You?” the neighbour replied, surprised. “Yes, me. Is that a problem?” “No, it’s just… well, he’s never had anyone over (which made Eva love James even more). And then suddenly, you…” “What do you mean, ‘you’?” Eva frowned. “None of my business, sorry,” the neighbour said, closing her door. Determined, Eva jammed the key in with all her heart, nearly twisting the whole doorframe. The door finally opened. James’s entire world stood revealed, and Eva’s soul froze. Of course, single men are often a bit ascetic, but this was a true monk’s cell. “Poor thing, you’ve either forgotten or never known true comfort,” Eva whispered, surveying the humble abode she’d now be frequenting. At least the neighbour hadn’t lied—a woman’s touch had never graced these walls, floors, or kitchen. Eva was first. Unable to resist, Eva dashed to the nearest shop for a pretty shower curtain and bathmat, oven mitts, and kitchen towels. Naturally, this led to more purchases… To the curtain and mat joined handmade soap, air fresheners, practical containers for cosmetics. “Adding little touches to his place isn’t overstepping,” Eva assured herself, as a second trolley joined the first. The lock gave up resisting—no longer even functioning properly, like a hockey goalie without his mask. Realising what she’d done, Eva worked until midnight with kitchen knives to remove the old lock, and the next morning dashed out for a replacement. Of course, the knives needed replacing too. Then forks, spoons, a new tablecloth, chopping boards, coasters—soon, curtains were next. At Sunday lunchtime, James rang: the trip was extended by two days. “I’ll be thrilled if you make my flat a bit warmer and cozier,” he said, grinning as Eva confessed to a few liberties with his decor. By then, coziness was arriving by the truckload, all sorted and filed, years’ worth tucked away in Eva finally unleashed. By the time James returned, only a lone spider by the vent remained from the old place. Eva almost chased it off, but seeing its startled eight eyes, decided it was better left as a symbol of respecting another’s property. James’s place now looked like he’d been happily married for eight years, got disillusioned, and found happiness again regardless. Eva hadn’t just taken over the apartment, but made sure everyone in the building knew she was the new lady of the house. The lack of a ring was purely technical. Neighbors were skeptical at first, but then just shrugged: “Whatever you say, it’s your business.” *** On James’s homecoming, Eva prepared a true home-cooked meal, dressed herself in dazzling attire, placed air fresheners at every corner, dimmed the shiny new lights, and began to wait. James was running late. When Eva felt her festive outfit digging painfully into the spots she’d spent months toning at the gym, someone started turning the new lock. “It’s a brand new lock, just push—it’s not locked!” Eva called out, a little embarrassed but with sultry intent. She feared no judgement—she’d done a brilliant job decorating, surely she’d be forgiven anything. Just then, Eva got a text from James: “Where are you? I’m home. The flat looks exactly the same. My mates were sure you’d cover everything in cosmetics.” Truth be told, Eva saw the message much later. At that moment, five complete strangers entered the flat: two young men, two school-aged kids, and an elderly gentleman, who straightened at the sight of Eva and smoothed what hairs he had left. “Blimey, Dad, what a reception! Why that spa, when home’s got all the trimmings?” said one young man, earning a swift slap from his wife for staring. Eva stood in the hallway with two full glasses, rooted to the spot. She wanted to scream, but was paralyzed. Somewhere in the corner, the spider chuckled. “Sorry, who are you?” Eva squeaked. “The owner, love. And you—here for the clinic visit, a dressing change? I said I could manage, you know,” replied the old man, eyeing Eva’s nurse’s uniform. “Err… Adam, your place is really cozy now,” the young wife peered in. “Not like the tomb you had before. And you, dear—what’s your name? Isn’t Adam a bit old for you? Though he’s respectable, has his own place…” “E-E-Eva…” “Well, Adam, must say you pick your people well!” Judging by his twinkle, Adam thought it a fine turn of events. “But where’s James?” Eva whispered, nervously draining both glasses. To be continued “I’m James!” shouted the eight-year-old boy. “Easy, son, not yet,” his mother sent him and the other child out to the car. “S-s-sorry, I seem to have the wrong flat,” Eva managed, recalling the struggle with the lock. “Is this Lilac Avenue, eighteen, flat twenty-six?” “No, it’s Beech Street, eighteen,” Adam replied, rubbing his hands together, ready to unwrap his unexpected gift. “Right,” Eva sighed tragically, “my mistake. Make yourselves at home; I need to make a call.” She grabbed her phone and darted to the bathroom, barricading herself, wrapping up in a towel. There she finally read James’s SMS. “James, I’ll be right there, just popped to the shop,” Eva texted. “No worries, I’ll wait. Grab a bottle of red if you can,” James sent. Eva intended to bring some red, but more in spirit. Tucking the mat and shower curtain under her arm, she waited until the strangers headed for the kitchen, then dashed out. She hastily packed up, and ran from the flat. *** “I’ll explain later,” Eva promised James on arrival, brushing past him in a daze. She went straight to the bathroom to swap the curtain and mat, then crashed on the sofa, sleeping off the stress—and the red—until morning. When she woke, a stranger waited for an explanation. “Excuse me, what’s this address?” “Butterfield, eighteen.”

00

For about a year, my son had been living with Kate, but we’d never met her parents—and that struck me as odd, so I decided to look into it I’ve always tried to raise my son to respect women above all—his grandmother, his mother, his wife, his daughter. In my view, that’s the best trait a man can have: respect for women. My husband and I gave our son an excellent upbringing and education, equipping him with everything he needs to navigate life with ease. We didn’t want to give him too many handouts, but we did buy him a two-bedroom flat. He worked to support himself, but affording his own place was out of reach. We didn’t hand over the flat right away—in fact, we didn’t even tell him about the purchase. Why? Our son had moved in with his girlfriend. For about a year, he had been living with Kate, but we had never met her parents, which I found peculiar. Later, I discovered that Kate’s mother was a former neighbour of a friend of mine, who told me something that made me uneasy. Apparently, Kate’s mother had thrown her husband out when he started earning less, and the absurdity only escalated from there. She began seeing a married but wealthy man. Kate’s grandmother, just like her daughter, had also had a relationship with a married man. She even used to force both her daughter and granddaughter to help out at his country cottage. That’s why my son had already found himself tangled in more than one affair with his future mother-in-law. But what worries me most in this story is how both Kate’s mother and grandmother are turning her against her father. The girl clearly loves her father, but because of these two women, their relationship is at risk. And to top it all off, Kate has decided to drop out of university because she believes a man should provide for the family. I do agree with that philosophy, and I’ve prepared my son for it, but heaven forbid they ever go through hard times. Where is the safety net? How will she support her husband if disaster strikes? By the way, I’ve re-registered the flat in my own name, because as the saying goes, I know I’ve raised a “deer”—a soft-hearted chap. Yes, anything acquired before marriage isn’t split after a divorce, but Kate is a clever woman and could easily see my “gentleman” out the door with only his socks.

01

— Needless to Say, This Is All My Fault! — My Boyfriend’s Sister Sobs, “I Never Imagined Anything Like This Could Happen! Now I Don’t Know What to Do Next or How to Save Face.” A Few Years Ago, My Boyfriend’s Sister Got Married. After the Wedding, the Newlyweds Decided to Live with the Husband’s Mum. His Parents Own a Spacious Three-Bedroom Flat and Only Have One Son. “You Can Have All but One Room—That’s Mine!” Declared the Mother-in-Law. “We’re All Well-Mannered People, So I’m Sure We’ll Get Along Just Fine.” “We Can Always Move Out!” The Husband Told His Wife. “There’s No Harm in Trying to Live with Mum. If it Doesn’t Work, We Can Always Rent Our Own Place…” And That’s Exactly What Happened, because Living Together Turned Out to Be Quite the Challenge. Both Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Tried, but Things Got Worse Every Day. Old Grievances Boiled Over, and Arguments Became More Frequent. “You Said If We Can’t Live Together, We’d Move Out!” The Wife Cried. “Well, Isn’t That a Bit Drastic?” The Mother-in-Law Smirked. “These Are Trivial Matters—No Reason to Pack Your Bags and Leave.” Exactly a Year After the Wedding, the Wife Became Pregnant and Gave Birth to a Healthy Baby Boy. The Grandma Quit Her Old Job Around the Same Time and Couldn’t Find Another, as No Employer Wanted Someone Nearing Retirement Age. That Meant Daughter-in-Law and Mother-in-Law Were Cooped Up Together 24/7—with Nowhere to Go—And the Tension Just Got Worse. The Husband Simply Shrugged and Listened to Complaints; He Was the Family’s Only Breadwinner. “We Can’t Leave My Mother on Her Own Now, She Has No Income. I Can’t Abandon Her, and There’s No Way I Can Afford Our Own Flat and Still Support Mum. Once She Finds a Job, We’ll Move Out!” But the Young Wife’s Patience Ran Out. She Packed Up Her Things and Her Son’s, and Moved Back in With Her Own Mum, Telling Her Husband She Wouldn’t Step Foot in His Mother’s House Again. If Family Mattered to Him, He’d Have to Sort Something Out. She Was So Sure He’d Rush to Get Their Family Back Together. But She Was Completely Wrong. Three Months Have Passed Since She Moved Back Home, and He Hasn’t Made the Slightest Effort to Bring Her Back. He Still Lives With His Mum, Communicates with His Wife and Child via Video Calls After Work, and Visits on Weekends at His Mother-in-Law’s House. He Now Gets Attention and Care from Both Women. Plus, Grandma Genuinely Pities Her Son, Now Left by His Angry Wife, and the Husband Doesn’t Even Need to Worry About Raising His Child. The Husband’s the Big Winner! And the Mother-in-Law Must Be Loving It—She Really Hasn’t Lost Anything! Meanwhile, the Young Wife Is Far From Happy. She Loves Her Husband Deeply, Even Though She Knows He Isn’t Acting Right. “What Did You Expect When You Left?” Her Husband Says, “You Can Come Back If You Want.” Chances Are, the Wife Has No Intentions of Leaving Her Mum’s and Renting a Flat—Understandably So, as She’s on Maternity Leave and Can’t Afford It. Is This Really the End of Their Family? What Do You Think—Does She Stand Any Chance of Returning to Her Mother-in-Law’s House and Saving Face Out of This Mess?

02

I Gave My Surname to Her Kids—Now I’m Legally Required to Support Them While She Lives Happily Ever After with Their Biological Dad Let Me Tell You How I Went From ‘Fun Guy’ to Official Bank of Two Children Who Only Message Me for Cinema Money and Ignore Me at Christmas It All Began Three Years Ago When I Met Marianne—An Amazing, Divorced Woman with Two Kids Aged 8 and 10. I Fell Head Over Heels. She Kept Telling Me: “The Kids Adore You!” Of Course They Did—I Took Them to Theme Parks Every Weekend. One Day, In One of Those Life-Changing Conversations, Marianne Said: — “It Breaks My Heart the Kids Don’t Share Their Dad’s Surname. He Never Officially Acknowledged Them.” In a Shining (Sarcastic) Moment, I Replied: — “Well… I Could Adopt Them. They Already Feel Like My Own.” You Know That Film Moment Where Time Stops and a Voiceover Says, “This Will End Badly”? I Didn’t Get That Warning. I Should Have. Marianne Burst into Happy Tears, the Kids Hugged Me—A Hero. A Foolish Hero, but Still. After Lawyers, Solicitors, and Judges, the Kids Became Sebastian Williams and Camilla Williams—WITH MY SURNAME. We Even Had a Little ‘Family Ceremony’ with Cake. Six Months Later. SIX. Marianne Says: — “We Need to Talk… I Don’t Know How to Say This, But… Mike’s Back.” — “Mike Who?” — “The Kids’ Biological Dad. He’s Changed. He Wants His Family Back.” I Was Speechless. — “What Are You Going To Do?” — “I’m Giving Him a Chance. For the Kids, You Understand?” Of Course, I Understood. Like Someone Was Shoving Me Out With a Neon Exit Sign. — “Marianne, I ADOPTED Them. They’re Legally My Children.” — “Yes, Yes… We’ll Sort That Later. Right Now the Kids Need Their Dad.” “We’ll Sort That Later”—Like It’s an Electricity Bill. My Solicitor Nearly Choked on His Coffee: — “You Signed Full Adoption?” — “Yes.” — “Then You’re Their Father—All the Legal Responsibilities: Child Support, School, Healthcare. Everything.” — “But I’m Not with Their Mum…” — “Doesn’t Matter. You’re Their Dad. That’s the Law.” So Here I Am—Paying Maintenance to Marianne, Who Now Happily Lives with Mike in MY Flat—Because “Children Need Stability and Shouldn’t Have to Move.” MY Flat. Paid By Me. But I Had to Leave Because “It Would Be Too Traumatic for the Kids.” The Craziest Part? Mike—the Phantom Dad Who Never Paid a Penny—Now Kicks a Ball in the Park and Is the Family Hero. And Me? I Get Monthly Emails from the Solicitor: “Child Support Payment: £XXX” With a Sad Emoji. Yeah, That Helps. Last Month Sebastian Messaged: — “Hi, Can You Send Some Extra? I Want New Trainers.” — “Can’t Mike Buy Them?” — “He Says You’re My Legal Dad. He’s Just ‘Dad by Heart.’” Dad by Heart. How Convenient. I’m the Dad by Direct Debit. Adoption Is Almost Impossible to Reverse. The Court Would Paint Me as the Villain Trying to ‘Abandon the Children.’ My Friends Have Stopped Pitying Me: — “Mate, When Did You Think This Was a Good Idea?” — “I Was in Love.” — “Being In Love Shouldn’t Turn Off Your Brain Completely.” He’s Right. Now Any Time I See Someone Dating a Single Mum or Dad, I Want to Shout: “DON’T SIGN ANYTHING! BE THE FUN UNCLE, THE PARTNER—JUST DON’T SIGN!” My Mum Just Said: “Love Made You Foolish,” And Gave Me a Hug That Hurt Even More. Yesterday Again: “Unexpected School Supply Costs—£XXX” Unexpected. Like School Isn’t Every Year. And Marianne Posts Pictures of Her “Happy Family”—The Kids, MY Surname, Next to the Dad Who Abandoned Them. The Best Bit? Camilla (At 10, Yes, She’s Got Instagram…) Wrote in Her Bio: “Daughter of Marianne & Mike ❤️” My Name? Nowhere. I’m Just the Anonymous Sponsor of Their Lives. So Here I Am—Single, £500 Down Each Month, with Two “Children” Who Message Only for Money, Knowing I Made the Biggest Mistake of My Life Out of Love. The Only Silver Lining? When People Ask If I Have Kids, I Can Say “Yes” and Share this Story Over Dinner. Everyone Laughs. Inside—I’m the Only One Crying. So—Have You Ever Signed Something ‘For Love’ and Paid the Price… Or Am I the Only ‘Genius’ Who Gifted Both a Surname and a Bank Account in One Special Offer?

03

Every Tuesday Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic bag—a symbol of today’s failure. Two hours lost wandering Westfield in search of a birthday present for her goddaughter, her best friend’s daughter. Ten-year-old Molly had outgrown her obsession with ponies and now dreamed of the stars, but finding a decent telescope that wouldn’t break the bank felt like a mission worthy of NASA. It was growing dark outside, and underground, the fatigue of the evening rush lingered thick in the air. Letting a wave of commuters pass, Liana squeezed toward the escalator. Then, from the blur of voices, she caught a sharp, emotional snatch of conversation. “I honestly never thought I’d see him again, truly—” a young, slightly shaky voice trailed from behind. “But now every Tuesday, he picks her up from school. Himself. In his own car, and they go to that same park with the carousel…” Liana froze, halfway down the moving escalator. Glancing back, she caught a glimpse—the bright red coat, the animated face, sparkling eyes. And the friend, listening closely, nodding in agreement. “Every Tuesday.” She’d had a day like that once. Three years ago. Not Monday’s heavy beginnings, nor Friday’s anticipation—always Tuesday. The day her world revolved around. Every Tuesday at five, she’d dash from the secondary school where she taught English literature, racing clear across London. To the Royal College of Music’s old building with its creaky floorboards. To pick up Mark—her seven-year-old nephew, grave beyond his years, his violin almost as tall as he was. Anton’s boy. Her brother, who’d died in a tragic accident three years prior. For months after the funeral, those Tuesdays were rituals of survival—for Mark, who had retreated into silence. For his mother, Olga, shattered and barely able to get out of bed. For Liana herself, who tried to glue the shards of their life together, anchoring them as best she could. She remembered it all: Mark emerging from class, head bowed, avoiding eye contact. Taking his heavy case wordlessly. Walking to the tube, keeping conversation alive—stories about school mishaps, or the smart crow who stole a boy’s sandwich. One rainy November, Mark asked, “Aunt Liana, did Dad hate the rain too?” Her heart squeezed as she answered, “He loathed it! Always sprinted for shelter at the first drop.” Mark squeezed her hand then, fiercely, almost like an adult—not to be led, but as if holding onto something slipping away. Not just her hand. A memory made real. In that grip, an aching child’s longing—but now, Dad belonged to this world too: under these rainy London skies, on that street. Not just in memory or whispered sighs, but here. Her life split into ‘before’ and ‘after’. And Tuesday became the only day that felt truly real—vital, sometimes unbearably so. All week she’d prepare, buying apple juice because Mark liked it, downloading silly cartoons in case the tube was unbearable, inventing stories for their walks. Eventually, Olga rebuilt herself—found work, and new love, and decided on a fresh start in another city, far from memories. Liana helped them pack, hugged Mark hard on the train platform. “Ring me, text me,” she said, blinking against tears, “I’m always here.” At first, he’d call every Tuesday at six. For fifteen precious minutes, she was Aunt Liana again, needing to ask everything—school, violin, new mates. His voice was the thinnest thread, stretched across miles. Call by call, the rhythm thinned—every two weeks, then just for birthdays and Christmas. “Sorry, Aunt Liana, forgot last Tuesday—had a maths test,” he texted. “No worries, sunshine. How was the test?” she’d reply. Her Tuesdays became marked by looking at her phone—not for a call, but just in case. When he didn’t message, she wrote first. Later, just on special days—his voice confident, his stories general. Stepfather Sergei turned out calm and kind—a comfort more than a replacement. Then came little sister, Alice. On Facebook—Mark with a newborn, awkward but impossibly gentle. Life, cruel and generous, always pressing forward—binding wounds with routines, baby care, and new dreams. Liana’s role—a careful, shrinking niche: the aunt from another chapter. So now, in the echoing tunnel of the underground, those overheard words—“Every Tuesday”—weren’t a reproach. They were a gentle echo. A nod from the Liana who carried immense, burning love and responsibility for three years—a wound and a blessing. That version knew her place in the world: anchor, guide, the needed part of a small boy’s Tuesday. She was needed. The woman in red had her own story, her own tough bargain with memory and now. But that weekly rhythm—“every Tuesday”—wasn’t just routine. It was shorthand for, “I’m here. You can count on me. For this hour, you matter.” Liana once spoke that language fluently. Now, she’d almost forgotten. The train rumbled to life. Liana straightened, eyeing her reflection in the dusty window. At her stop, she knew what she’d do. Tomorrow she’d order two matching telescopes—good, affordable ones. One for Molly. One for Mark, delivered to his door. As soon as it arrived, she’d text: “Mark, so we can look at the same sky, even in different cities. Next Tuesday at six, if it’s clear, shall we both spot the Plough constellation? Let’s synchronise watches. Love, Aunt Liana.” She rose on the escalator into the chilly London evening. Next Tuesday wasn’t empty anymore—it had been claimed again. Not from duty, but by a gentle pact of memory, gratitude, and the unbreakable bond of family. Life went on. Her calendar still held days she could reclaim—not just survive, but assign for small, silent wonders. For a memory that warmed now, not hurt. For love that learned the language of distance—quieter, wiser, unshakeable.

04

Max kept his regret for the hasty divorce to himself—wise men turn lovers into special occasions, but he made his into a wife Maxwell Peters’ uplifted mood vanished the moment he parked his car and entered his flat. At home, predictability greeted him: slippers ready for his feet, the appetising smell of dinner, fresh flowers in a vase, and everything spotless. But it didn’t move him; after all, his wife was always home—what else is there for an older English lady to do all day? Bake mince pies, knit socks (alright, he exaggerated about the socks, but the point remained). Marina appeared with her usual smile: “Tired, love? I’ve baked pies—cabbage and apple, just how you like…” She fell silent under Max’s heavy gaze, standing in trousers and her house top, hair tucked under a scarf—the way she always cooked. The professional habit of tidying her hair: she’d spent her life as a cook. Eyes lightly pencilled, a bit of gloss—she was always tidy, but today it struck Max as brash. What’s the point of painting up your old age! He probably shouldn’t have been so blunt, but he blurted: “Makeup at your age is nonsense! Doesn’t suit you.” Marina’s lips trembled, but she said nothing—and didn’t go to lay the table. Just as well. The pies were under the tea towel, the tea was brewed—he’d manage. After his shower and supper, kindness began to seep back into Max, along with memories of the day. Draped in his favourite dressing gown, he settled into his armchair—the one waiting just for him—and pretended to read. What did that new woman at work say to him? “You’re quite an attractive man—and interesting too.” At fifty-six, Max managed the legal department of a major London firm. Reporting to him: a fresh grad and three women over forty. Another woman had gone on maternity: her spot was now filled by Asya. He’d been away for paperwork, so only met her that day. He invited her to his office for a chat and, with her, drifted the scent of delicate perfume and a wave of youthful freshness. Soft features framed by light curls, bright blue eyes meeting his confidently. Juicy lips, a mole on her cheek—was she really thirty? He’d have guessed 25. She was divorced, mother to an eight-year-old son. Oddly—he thought: “Good.” Chatting, he mildly flirted, saying, “Now you’ve got yourself an old boss.” Asya fluttered long lashes and replied with words he kept replaying now. His wife, over the offence, soon appeared by his chair with her ritual chamomile tea. He frowned—“Always picks the worst time!”—but drank, not without pleasure. Suddenly, he wondered: what is the young, pretty Asya doing now? And an old, forgotten feeling stabbed through him: jealousy. *** After work, Asya popped into Tesco for cheese, a baguette, and some kefir for supper. At home she was neutral, no smile, hugging her son Vasily more by routine than tenderness when he ran up. Dad tinkered in the balcony workshop, Mum cooked. Putting her shopping away, Asya announced she had a headache and didn’t want to be disturbed. Really, she felt bleak. Ever since she divorced Vasily’s dad years before, Asya had only struggled fruitlessly to become someone’s “main woman.” All the good ones turned out solidly married and only wanted something easy. The last one she’d dated from work seemed head-over-heels. Two passionate years. He even rented a flat for her (for his convenience, really). But when things got serious, he insisted not just on breaking up, but that she must immediately quit her job. He even found her a new position. Now Asya was back living with her parents and son. Mum pitied her, Dad said that at least the boy should grow up with a mother—not just grandparents. *** Marina, Max’s wife, long suspected he was struggling with a mid-life crisis. He had everything, but something vital was missing. She feared to imagine what “vital” could mean for him. She tried to soften things—making his favourite food, staying pretty, not pushing for deep conversation (though she dearly missed it). She distracted herself with their grandson, the garden, but Max was always glum, brooding. So, perhaps because they both craved change in their lives, Max and Asya’s affair flared instantly. Two weeks after she started, he asked her for lunch—then gave her a lift home from work. He touched her hand; she turned to him with a glowing face. “I don’t want to say goodbye. Shall we go to my country cottage?” Max said huskily. Asya nodded, and the car sped off. Fridays, Max finished work an hour early, but only at 9pm, the worried wife got a text: “We’ll talk tomorrow.” Max had no idea how accurately he’d described the future—“talking” was pointless now. Marina understood: after 32 years of marriage, one can’t burn with passion forever. But he was so much a part of her that losing him meant losing herself. Let him scowl, grumble, and act up, so long as he stayed—right there, in his favourite armchair, having dinner, breathing beside her. Desperate for words to save her life (really, just her life), Marina didn’t sleep till morning. Out of despair, she fetched the wedding album: young, so beautiful, so much ahead! Many had wished to call her their own. Her husband should remember this. She hoped he’d see those fragments of their old happiness and realise—some things cannot be thrown away. But he came back only on Sunday, and she saw: it was over. Before her, a different Max. He was charged with adrenaline; awkwardness and shame were gone. Unlike her, fearing change, he craved and embraced it. Even planned it. He spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent. From now on, Marina should consider herself free. He’d file for divorce tomorrow. Himself. The son’s family was to move in with her—according to the law: the double-bedroom flat belonged to Max, inherited. Family games. The move into a three-bedroom with Mum wouldn’t worsen conditions for the young family—and she’d have someone to fuss over. The car: of course, his. As for the cottage—he’d keep rights to use it. Marina knew she seemed pathetic and unattractive, but she couldn’t hold back tears. They caught in her throat, making speech garbled. She begged him to stop, look back, think of his health, at least… That last bit infuriated him. He approached, whispered, almost shouting: “Don’t drag me into your old age!” *** It would be foolish to claim Asya loved Maxim—she accepted his proposal on their very first night together at the cottage. Being a wife was appealing; she also found great comfort in showing her ex-lover, who’d rejected her, that she’d moved on. She was tired of living in her parents’ flat with Dad’s strict ways. She wanted stability. Maxim could give her that. Not a bad deal, really. Despite nearing sixty, he didn’t look like a grandad—fit, sharp, still a department head. Intelligent, pleasant, even considerate in bed. She liked that there were no rented flats, no cash struggles, no theft. All pluses? Well, she had doubts over his age. After a year together, disappointment grew. She still felt young, craved excitement—frequent, not once a year and dignified. She loved concerts, dreamed of waterparks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, meetups with friends. Her youth and energy meant juggling all that with housework and family was easy. Even her son, now living with her, didn’t slow her down. But Max was clearly flagging. At work, the expert legal manager handled endless tasks briskly; at home, she got a tired man who mostly wanted quiet and respect for his habits. Guests, theatre, beach—allowed, but only in small doses. He was open to intimacy, but then straight to sleep—even at 9pm. Plus, she had to account for his sensitive stomach—no fried food, sausages, supermarket ready meals. The ex-wife had spoiled him. He even felt nostalgic at times for her steamed meals. Asya cooked to suit her son, couldn’t understand why pork cutlets made his side ache. She couldn’t memorise his tablets list either—surely a grown man could sort his own meds. Gradually, part of her life happened without him. She took her son as a companion, choosing activities to suit him, teamed up with friends. Oddly, her husband’s age spurred her to live faster. They didn’t work together anymore—the directors found it unseemly, and Asya switched to a notary office. She felt relieved not to spend all day with her husband—he was starting to remind her of her father. Respect—that’s what Asya felt for Maxim. Was that too little or just enough for two people to be happy? Max’s sixtieth loomed, and Asya craved a lavish celebration. But her husband booked a table in a familiar, modest restaurant, one he’d visited often. He seemed bored, but that’s normal at his age, she thought. Colleagues toasted the birthday boy. Old family friends from the Marina years—it was awkward to invite them; family was far away, and they hadn’t understood his marriage to a much younger woman. His own son had cut him off. But doesn’t a father have the right to live his life as he chooses? Honestly, when marrying, he’d thought “choosing” would look rather different. That first year with Asya was a honeymoon. He enjoyed being in public with her, encouraging her to spend (not too much), keep up with friends, do fitness classes. He coped with concerts, wild movies, made Asya and her son co-owners of his flat. Later, he even gave her his half of the cottage, previously shared with Marina. Meanwhile, Asya, behind his back, persuaded Marina to sell her half, threatening to offload it to unsavoury buyers. Buying it (of course with Max’s money), she registered the place solely to herself. Her rationale: the river, the woodland—perfect for children. Now, for summer, Asya’s parents and her son moved in at the cottage. In fairness, this worked well: Max was not fond of the boy, who was noisy and lively. He’d married for love, not to raise another’s offspring. The old family took offence. After getting the money, they sold their own three-bed and went separate ways—his son’s family found a two-bed, Marina downsized to a studio. Max didn’t care how they lived. Family games. *** Now, Max’s sixtieth: so many wished him health, happiness, love. But he was missing the spark. Each year brought that familiar discontent. He loved his young wife, sure. But couldn’t keep pace with her, that was it. And to “press down”, to rule her, didn’t work. She’d smile and live in her own way. Never crossed a line—he could feel it, but it frustrated him. If only he could transplant his ex-wife’s soul into Asya! Someone who’d bring him chamomile tea, tuck him in if he dozed off. Max would love slow walks in the park together, late-night kitchen chats—but Asya couldn’t bear his long stories, and seemed to be bored in bed now. He grew anxious, which didn’t help. Max kept inside his regret at rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into rare treats; he’d made his into a wife. Asya, with her temperament, maybe ten more years would stay the playful filly. But even at forty, she’d still be much younger than him. That gulf would only widen. If he was lucky, perhaps life would end quickly—but if not? Such “un-festive” thoughts pounded, making his heart race. He scanned for Asya—there she was, dancing, radiant. Happy, though, of course—it’s wonderful to wake with her beside him. Gift baskets. Seizing the moment, he slipped out of the restaurant, longing for air, to shake off the gloom. But colleagues flocked over. Uncertain how to deal with the growing pain inside, he bolted for the waiting taxi and urged the driver to hurry. He’d decide the destination later. He yearned for somewhere he was truly appreciated—where arriving meant someone was waiting just for him. Where his time was cherished, he could relax, never feel old or weak or foolish. He rang his son, pleading for his ex-wife’s new address. Receiving a bit of well-earned scorn, he insisted—this was a matter of life and death. He let slip it was his birthday, after all. His son softened slightly and said his mum might not be alone. No boyfriend—just a friend. “Mum said they went to school together. The surname’s—something funny, Bulkovich?” “Bulkevich,” Max corrected, jealousy flaring. Yes, he’d fancied her once—many did. She was beautiful, bold. She’d planned to marry Bulkevich, but Max stole her away. Long ago, but yesterday enough to feel more real than life with Asya. His son asked, “Why do you want it, Dad?” The word “Dad” startled Max, and he realised how much he missed them all. So he answered honestly: “I don’t know, son.” Son gave him the new address. The driver stopped. Max got out—he didn’t want to speak with Marina in front of witnesses. He checked the time: nearly nine—she was an owl, who also was his lark. He buzzed at the door. But the answer was a muffled male voice—not his ex-wife’s. She was busy. “What’s wrong with her? Is she okay?” Max inquired, nervous. The voice demanded his name. “I’m her husband—even now! You must be Mr Bulkewich!” Max snapped. “‘Mr’? You’re her ex-husband, so you have no rights to bother Marina,” came the reply. Didn’t bother explaining: the friend was just taking a bath. “What, old flames never rust?” Max asked, gearing up for a long spat with Bulkewich. But he only replied, “No, they turn to silver.” Max never got through that door…

08

— Dad, please meet my future wife—and your daughter-in-law—Barbara! Boris beamed with happiness. — Who?! — Professor Roman Philipson, Doctor of Science, asked in surprise. — If this is a joke, it’s not very funny! He eyed the “daughter-in-law’s” rough fingers with distaste, especially her nails. It seemed to him this girl had never heard of soap and water—how else to explain that ingrained dirt under her nails? “My God! How lucky my Lara didn’t live to see this disgrace. We tried so hard to teach Boris the best manners,” raced through his mind. — I’m not joking! — Boris declared defiantly. — Barbara will be staying with us, and in three months we’re getting married. If you won’t participate in your son’s wedding, I’ll manage without you! — Hello! — smiled Barbara, striding confidently to the kitchen. — Here are pies, raspberry jam, dried mushrooms… — she listed foods pulled from a well-worn tote. Roman Philipson clutched his heart as Barbara ruined his pristine, hand-embroidered tablecloth with spilled jam. — Boris! Come to your senses! If you’re doing this just to spite me—it’s not worth it… It’s too cruel! What backwater did you bring this uncouth girl from? I won’t let her live under my roof! — the professor cried in despair. — I love Barbara. My wife has every right to live in my home! — Boris smirked mockingly. Roman Philipson knew his son was tormenting him. Not wishing to argue further, he silently retreated to his room. Relations with his son had changed drastically since his wife’s death. Boris had become unruly, dropped out of university, spoke rudely to his father, and led a wild, reckless life. Roman Philipson hoped his son would change—become thoughtful and kind once more. But each day Boris grew farther apart. And now, Boris had brought this village girl home, knowing full well his father would never approve… Soon Boris and Barbara were married. Roman Philipson refused to attend the wedding and accept the unwelcome daughter-in-law. He was bitter that the place of Lara—the perfect homemaker, wife, and mother—was now filled by this uneducated girl who struggled to string two sentences together. Barbara seemed oblivious to her father-in-law’s dislike, trying to please him—but only making matters worse. He saw no good in her, only poor manners and ignorance… After his stint as the model husband, Boris resumed drinking and partying. His father often overheard their quarrels, secretly pleased—hoping Barbara would leave the house for good. One day, Barbara burst in crying. — Roman Philipson! Boris wants a divorce, and he’s throwing me out in the street. Plus, I’m expecting a child! — Why out on the street? You’re not homeless.… Go back to wherever you came from. Being pregnant doesn’t entitle you to stay here after a divorce. Sorry, but I won’t interfere in your relationship, — the man said, inwardly rejoicing that he’d finally be rid of the annoying daughter-in-law. Barbara packed in despair, unable to understand why her father-in-law hated her from the start, or why Boris had treated her like a pet then cast her out. So what if she was just a village girl? She had a heart and feelings too… *** Eight years passed… Roman Philipson was living in a nursing home. In recent years, the elderly man had grown frail, and Boris had quickly took the opportunity to send him away—relieving himself of any further trouble. Resigned, the old man accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. He’d taught thousands of students love, respect, and care. He still received letters of thanks from former pupils. But he’d failed to raise his own son to be a decent person… — Roman, you have guests, — his roommate said, returning from a walk. — Who? Boris? — the old man blurted out, though deep down he knew it was impossible; his son would never visit—his bitterness toward his father ran deep… — Don’t know. The nurse told me to come get you. What are you sitting there for? Run along! — his roommate smiled. Roman took his cane and slowly made his way out of the small, stuffy room. Descending the stairs, he saw her from afar—and instantly recognised her, though it had been years since their last meeting. — Hello, Barbara, — he said softly, head bowed. Perhaps he still felt guilt over not defending that sincere, simple girl all those years ago… — Roman Philipson?! — the rosy-cheeked woman was startled. — You’ve changed so much… Are you ill? — A little…, — he smiled sadly. — How did you find me? — Boris told me. You know, he refuses to speak to his son. But the boy keeps asking to visit his dad—and his granddad… Ivan’s not to blame that you won’t acknowledge him. He desperately needs family. It’s just the two of us…, — Barbara said with a trembling voice. — Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have disturbed you. — Wait! — the old man pleaded. — How old is Ivan now? I remember your last photo—he was only three. — He’s just at the entrance. Shall I call him? — Barbara asked, hesitantly. — Of course, dear, bring him in! — Roman Philipson brightened. In came a ginger-haired boy—Boris’s spitting image in miniature. Ivan hesitantly approached the grandfather he’d never met. — Hello, sonny! You’ve grown so much…, — the old man teared up, embracing his grandson. They talked for ages, strolling through the autumn park beside the nursing home. Barbara spoke of her tough life—about losing her mother young and raising her son and farm alone. — Forgive me, Barbara. I owe you a great apology. For all my learning and education, it’s only now I understand—people should be valued not for wit and manners, but for their sincerity and kindness, — the old man said. — Roman Philipson, we’d like to make a suggestion, — Barbara smiled, nervous and stammering. — Come live with us! You’re alone, and so are we… It’s so important to have family close by. — Granddad, come on! We can go fishing together and hunt mushrooms in the forest… Our village is beautiful, and there’s plenty of room at home! — Ivan pleaded, not letting go of his grandfather’s hand. — Alright! — Roman Philipson smiled. — I missed my chance with Boris, but maybe I can give you what I couldn’t give your father. Besides, I’ve never been to the countryside—maybe I’ll like it! — You’ll love it! — Ivan laughed.

013

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

What About the Flat? You Promised Me! You’re Ruining My Life!