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When My Mother Discovered I Was Married, Had a Good Job, and Owned My Own Flat, She Turned Up Asking Me for Financial Support

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When my mum found out I was married, had a good job, and my own flat, she wasted no time in coming round to ask for financial help.

Mums always been incredibly strict with me. Dad was away a lot on business trips, so most of the time it was just the two of us at home. Dad cared for me, but whenever he came back, hed shower me with gifts. Mum, on the other hand, never showed much affection at all. Then one day, Dad left for another trip and just never came home.

I never really had any friends at school. I used to turn up looking like Id been dragged through a hedge, wearing a battered old uniform Mum had picked up from who knows where. She’d constantly tell me, Just get on with what youve got. I need to sort myself out, and theres no money for anything else. So, I wore that dreadful get-up all through Year Six, patiently waiting for things to get better.

A neighbour eventually passed on her daughters old uniform once shed moved up to secondary school. I wore that all the way through to when I finished. As for shoes, I just made do with whatever I had, and only when they became far too tight did anyone notice. Still, I managed to ace my exams and decided to do an economics degree. Even at uni, I survived off cast-offs my mates didnt want anymore.

It was at uni that I bumped into Dominic, whod graduated a couple of years before me. We started seeing each other, and eventually he introduced me to his family. The first time I visited, I was so embarrassed by my shabby, worn-out shoesmy feet were even wet from walking in the rain. Dominics mum pretended not to notice, but the next day, she invited me round for tea and gifted me a brand-new pair of shoes.

I worried Dominics parents might not take to me, but soon enough, they made me feel like I was one of their own. Honestly, Ive no idea what I did to deserve it, but they ended up giving us a house as a wedding present. After I graduated, my mother-in-law offered me a proper job at her company, and suddenly I was earning more than I ever expected. I could finally afford my own things. Ill never stop being grateful; I honestly thank God daily for helping me through all of it.

So, when Mum heard I was settled, married, with a nice job and my own place, she was straight on my doorstep asking for money. The thing is, my step-mum overheard the whole thing. She called both my husband and son in right away. Eventually, my husband explained to my mum that she shouldnt expect anything from me anymore. He told her he was thankful to have me in his life, but that she wasn’t welcome at ours anymore. Since then, Mum hasnt been in touch, and honestly, all I can think about these days is how excited I am for the baby to arrive.

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No Instructions Given Sasha Received a Letter as a Photo on His Phone—Blue Ink on Squared Paper, Signed ‘Grandad Nick.’ Underneath, a Brief Note from Mum: ‘He Writes Like This Now. You Don’t Have to Reply If You Don’t Want.’ Sasha Zoomed In to Read the Lines: ‘Hi, Sasha. I’m Writing from the Kitchen. Met a New Friend: My Glucose Meter. It Scolds Me in the Morning if I Eat Too Much Bread. The Doctor Says I Should Go on More Walks, but Where Should I Walk When My Friends Are All in the Cemetery, and You’re Off in London. So, I Walk Down Memory Lane Instead. Today I Remembered How Back in ’79 We Used to Unload Freight at the Station. The Pay Was Pennies, but You Could Always Sneak a Few Crates of Apples. Wooden Boxes with Metal Handles. Sour Green Apples, but Still a Treat. We’d Eat Them Right There on the Embankment, Perched on Cement Sacks. Hands Grey from Dust. Not Exactly Clean, but Delicious All the Same. Just Reminiscing, That’s All—Not Here to Lecture. You’ve Got Your Own Life, I’ve Got My Check-Ups. If You Fancy, Write About the Weather and Your Exams. Your Grandad, Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the ‘Glucose Meter’ and ‘Check-Ups.’ The Messenger Note Read: ‘Sent an Hour Ago.’ He’d Phoned Mum, but She Didn’t Pick Up. So, It’s Really ‘Like This Now.’ He Looked Through the Chat. The Last Messages from Grandad Were Voice Notes from a Year Ago: Short Birthday Wishes, and One ‘How’s Uni Going?’ Sasha Had Replied with an Emoji and Disappeared. Now, He Looked at the Photo of the Squared Paper for a Long Time, Then He Started to Type. ‘Hi Grandad. Weather Here: Three Degrees and Wet. Exams Start Soon. Apples Go for £2.50 a Kilo Now—Not Great for Apples Here. Sasha.’ He Thought About It, Erased ‘Sasha,’ Wrote Simply ‘Grandson Sasha.’ Then Hit Send. A Few Days Later, Mum Forwarded a New Photo. ‘Hi Sasha. Got Your Letter. Read It Three Times. Decided to Reply Properly. The Weather Here’s About the Same as Yours, Just Not as Many Trendy Puddles. Snow in the Morning, Water by Lunch, Sheet Ice by Evening. I’ve Slipped a Couple Times—Seems It’s Not My Time Yet. Since We’re on Apples—Let Me Tell You About My First Real Job. I Was 20, Working in the Factory Fitting Lift Parts. Always Noisy, Something Clanking, Air Full of Dust. My Overalls Were Grey—Could Never Get Them Clean. Fingers Always Full of Splinters, Nails Black with Oil. But I Was Proud—Had an Entry Pass, Came in through the Main Gate, Felt Like a Proper Grown-Up. Best Bit Wasn’t the Pay, It Was Lunch. In the Canteen, Big Bowls of Soup, and If You Got There Early You’d Get Extra Bread. We’d Sit Together Eating in Silence. Not Because We Had Nothing to Say, Just Because We Were Worn Out. The Spoon Felt Heavier Than a Wrench. You’re Probably Sitting There With Your Laptop, Thinking This is Ancient History. Sometimes I Wonder—Was I Happy, Or Just Too Busy to Notice. Aside from Studying, Are You Working? Or Do People Your Age Just Make Up Startups Now? Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read This While Waiting in Line for a Kebab. People Argued, Advertisements Blared from the Counter. He Found Himself Re-Reading the Bit About Soup and Heavy Bowls. He Wrote Back Right There, Leaning on the Counter. ‘Hi Grandad, I Work as a Delivery Driver. Mostly Takeaways, Sometimes Paperwork. No Entry Pass, Just an App That’s Always Freezing. But I Sometimes Eat at Work Too—Not Stealing, Just Not Enough Time to Get Home. I Buy the Cheapest, Eat in Doorways or In a Mate’s Car. Also in Silence. About Being Happy—Not Sure. Usually Too Busy to Notice. But Canteen Soup Sounds Good. Grandson Sasha.’ He Thought About Adding Something About Startups, but Decided to Leave It Be—Grandad Could Fill in the Gaps Himself. The Next Letter Was Unexpectedly Short. ‘Hi Sasha. Being a Delivery Driver Is No Joke. Now I Picture You Not As a Kid Behind a Screen, But As a Bloke in Trainers, Always on the Move. Since You Mentioned Work, I’ll Tell You About When I Picked Up Extra Shifts on a Building Site Between Factory Rotas—When Money Was Tight. Carrying Bricks Up to the Fifth Floor on Wooden Stairs. Dust up Your Nose, in Your Eyes, in Your Ears. By Evening I’d Take Off My Boots and Sand Would Fall Out. Your Gran Used to Tell Me Off for Ruining the Linoleum. Funny Thing Is, I Don’t Remember The Exhaustion As Much As One Detail. There Was a Lad on Site Everyone Called ‘Smithy.’ He’d Arrive Before Everyone Else and Sit on an Upside-Down Bucket Peeling Potatoes He’d Brought in from Home. At Lunch, He’d Chuck them in a Saucer Over the Hob and the Smell of Boiled Spuds Would Fill the Whole Floor. We’d Eat with Our Hands, Sprinkle a Bit of Salt from a Paper Packet. Tasted Like Nothing Better. Now I’m Sitting in My Kitchen Looking at a Bag of Shop Potatoes, and It’s Not the Same. Maybe It’s the Spuds. Maybe It’s Just Age. What Do You Eat When You’re Tired? Not Takeaways—Proper Food. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Didn’t Reply Right Away. He Thought About ‘Proper Food.’ He Thought Back to Last Winter—After a 12-Hour Shift, He’d Bought Frozen Ravioli from a 24-Hour Shop, Boiled Them in the Dorm Pot, The Same One Someone Else Used for Sausages. The Ravioli Fell Apart, the Water Went Cloudy, But He Ate the Lot, Standing by the Window—No Table. After Two Days, He Wrote Back. ‘Hi Grandad, When I’m Worn Out, Usually Eggs. Two or Three, Sometimes with a Bit of Sausage. Pan’s Seen Better Days, But It Fries. No Smithy in Our Halls, Just a Flatmate Who Always Burns Things and Swears. You Write a Lot About Food. Were You Hungry Back Then, Or Are You Now? Grandson Sasha.’ He Immediately Regretted That Last Question—Felt Rude—But Sent It Anyway. The Reply Came Quicker Than Usual. ‘Sasha, Good Question About Hunger. Back Then I Was Young and Always Hungry. Not Just For Soup or Potatoes—For a Motorbike, a Decent Pair of Shoes, My Own Room So I Didn’t Have to Listen to My Dad Coughing All Night. Wanted Respect—To Walk Into a Shop Without Counting Change. To Have Girls Notice Me, Not Pass Me By. Now I Eat Fine—the Doctor Tells Me Off Actually. I Write About Food Because It’s Something You Can Describe and Remember. Taste Is Easier Than Explaining Shame. Since You Asked, I’ll Tell You a Story—But No Life Lessons, I Promise. I Was 23, Already Dating the Woman Who’d Become Your Gran, but We Were Rocky. The Factory Announced They Were Sending a Team Up North for Good Money, Enough to Buy a Car in Two Years. I Was All In—I Pictured Myself Coming Home with a Brand-New Escort, Driving Her Round Town. But There Was a Catch—She Told Me She Wouldn’t Go. Sick Mum, Job, Friends Here, Couldn’t Handle the Cold and Darkness Up North. I Told Her She Was Holding Me Back. Said If She Loved Me, She’d Understand. I Was Ruder, but You Get the Idea. So I Went On My Own. After Six Months, the Letters Stopped. Two Years Later, I Came Back with Savings and a Car. She’d Married Someone Else. For Ages I Told Everyone She’d Betrayed Me—That I’d Done it All for Her. Truth Is, I Chose Money and Machines Over a Person. And Didn’t Admit It to Myself for Years. That Was My Appetite Back Then. You Asked What I Felt—At the Time I Felt Proud. Then for a Long Time, I Pretended I Felt Nothing. If You Don’t Want to Reply, That’s Fine. I Know You’ve More Important Things Than Old Men’s Stories. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read It Over and Over. The Word ‘Shame’ Hooked Him Like a Fish. He Tried Typing ‘Do You Regret It?’ and Deleted It. Then ‘What If You’d Stayed?’ and Deleted That Too. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, Thanks for Telling Me That. I Don’t Know What to Say. The Way We Talk About Gran, It’s Like She Was Always Just Gran, Like There Were No Other Options. I Don’t Blame You. I Recently Chose Work Over Someone Too. Had a Girlfriend Around the Time I Started as a Courier—Started Getting Good Shifts, Did Overtime. She Said We Barely Saw Each Other, I Was Always on My Phone, Snapping at Her. I Said Life Would Get Easier, Just Needed to Stick It Out. Eventually She’d Had Enough, Left. I Said It Was Her Problem. I Was Ruder, But You Get the Picture. Now, When I Come Back to the Dorm at 11pm and Fry Eggs on My Own, I Sometimes Wonder if I Chose Deliveries Over Someone. And Also Pretend It Was the Right Thing. Maybe It’s in the Family. Sasha.’ The Next Letter from Grandad Was on Lined Paper, Not Squared—Mum Explained by Voice Note He’d Run Out of His Usual Pad. ‘Sasha, That’s a Good Line—About It Being in the Family. In Our Lot, Everything’s Blamed on Blood. If They Drink—It’s Because Their Grandad Did. If They Shout—It’s Because Gran Was Strict. Truth Is, Each Time You Still Choose. It’s Just Easier to Pretend It’s Inherited Than Admit You’re Scared. When I Came Back from Up North, I Thought Everything Was New—Car, Room in a Hostel, Money in My Pocket. But Every Night I’d Sit on the Bed, Not Knowing What to Do with Myself. Friends Had Moved Away, The Factory Boss Changed, Only Dust and an Old Radio Waiting at Home. Once I Went and Stood Outside the House of Your Not-Quite-Gran. Watched the Windows—Light in One, Dark in Another. Waited Until I Was Frozen. Then She Came Out with a Pram and a Bloke Beside Her, Hand on Her Arm, Laughing About Something. I Hid Behind a Tree. Watched Until They Went Round the Corner. Probably the First Time I Realised No One Betrayed Me. I Picked My Path, She Hers. But It Took Me Ten Years to Admit That. You Wrote You Picked Work Over a Partner. Maybe It Was Actually Choosing Yourself. Maybe Right Now, Getting Out of Debt is More Important Than Going to the Cinema. Not Good or Bad—Just a Fact. The Worst is How Rarely We Say Plainly, “This is More Important to Me Right Now Than You.” Instead, We Wrap It in Fancy Words and People End Up Hurt. I’m Telling You This Not Because I Want You to Win Her Back. Honestly, I Don’t Know If You Should. Just—Maybe Someday You’ll Stand Under a Window and Realise You Could Have Been More Honest. Your Old Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Sat in the Dorm Corridor, Phone Warm in His Palm. Outside, Cars Sloshed Through Puddles. Someone Smoked on the Stairs. In the Next Room, Music Thudded Through the Wall. He Thought for a Long Time About What to Say. He Remembered Standing Under His Ex’s Window When She Stopped Picking Up. Watching Her Curtains, the Light in Her Flat; Thinking Maybe She’d Come to the Window. She Didn’t. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’ve Stood Under a Window Too. Hid When She Came Out With Some Guy—He Had a Rucksack, She Had a Shopping Bag. They Laughed. I Felt Wiped from Her Life. But Now Reading Your Words I Wonder if I Walked Out Myself. You Said It Took You Ten Years to Realise—Hope I Get There Quicker. I’m Not Going to Chase Her. I’ll Just Try to Stop Pretending I Don’t Care. Grandson Sasha.’ The Next Letter Changed Topic. ‘Sasha, You Once Asked About Money. Didn’t Answer Because I Didn’t Know Where to Start. I’ll Try Now. In Our Family, Money’s Like the Weather—It’s Mentioned Only When Things Get Bad or Strangely Good. Your Dad Once Asked Me What I Earned. I’d Just Had a Good Week with Extra Shifts—Said The Total. He Goggled, “Wow, You’re Rich!” I Laughed – “Not Really.” Couple Years Later, I Lost My Job—Half the Wages. Your Dad Asked Me Again How Much I Made. I Told Him. “Why So Little,” He Asked, “Are You Not Working Hard Enough?” I Snapped at Him—Told Him He Knew Nothing, Was Ungrateful. Really, He Was Just Trying to Make Sense of the Numbers. Years Later, I Realised That’s When I Taught Him Not to Ask Me About Money. He Grew Up Never Asking. Just Quietly Got Weekend Jobs, Fixed Things for People. And I Kept Expecting He’d Guess How Tough It Was by Himself. I Don’t Want to Make That Mistake With You. So I’ll Say It Straight. My Pension’s Not Huge, but There’s Enough for Food and Pills. Not for a Car Anymore, but I Don’t Need One. Now I Save Up for New Teeth—the Old Set Can’t Keep Up. How About You? Getting By? Not That I’m About to Send You Cash and Socks, Just Want to Know You’re Not Skipping Meals or Sleeping on the Floor. If It’s Awkward to Answer, You Can Just Say ‘Alright.’ I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Felt a Tightness in His Chest. He Remembered Asking Dad about Wages, Only to Be Fobbed Off with Jokes or a Cross ‘You’ll Learn One Day.’ He’d Grown Up Thinking Money Was something Embarrassing. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’m Not Hungry and I Don’t Sleep on the Floor. I’ve Got a Bed—Even a Mattress (Not Fancy, but Does the Job). I Pay My Own Rent, Made That Deal with Dad. Sometimes It’s Late, but I’ve Not Been Chucked Out Yet. Food’s Covered if I Don’t Buy Stupid Stuff. If Money’s Tight, I Just Grab More Shifts—Turn Into a Zombie Afterwards, But That’s My Choice. Wish It Was Easier to Ask You the Same Back, Like: “Grandad, Are You Alright?” But You’ve Already Answered. Honestly, It’d Be Simpler If You Just Wrote “I’m Fine” Without Explaining. But I Get That Grown-Ups Never Really Say Much. Thanks for Telling Me About Money. Sasha.’ He Fiddled with the Phone, Then Sent a Second Message: ‘If You Ever Want to Buy Something and Don’t Have Enough, Let Me Know. I Can’t Promise I Can Help But I’d Rather Know.’ Then Sent It Before He Could Change His Mind. Grandad’s Reply Was the Most Shaky—Letters Dancing Across the Page. ‘Sasha, Read Your Message About “If You Need.” At First, I Wanted to Say I Don’t Need Anything. That I’m Fine, Just Old, Only Need My Pills. Then I Wanted to Joke—That If I Really Needed Something, I’d Ask for a New Motorbike. But Then I Thought—All My Life I’ve Pretended to Be a Strong Man Who Can Do It All Alone. Ended Up As an Old Bloke Who’s Scared to Ask His Grandson for Anything. So I’ll Say This: If I Ever Really Need Something I Can’t Afford, I’ll Try Not to Pretend It’s Unimportant. For Now, I’ve Got Tea, Bread, Pills, and Your Letters. That’s Not Sentimental, Just Listing What I’ve Got. You Know, I Used to Think We Were Completely Different—You with Your Apps, Me With My Radio. But Now I See We’ve Got a Lot in Common. We Both Hate Asking for Help. We Both Pretend We Don’t Care When, Really, We Do. Since We’re Being Honest, Let Me Tell You Something No One Talks About in Our Family. You May Not Like It. When Your Dad Was Born, I Wasn’t Ready. New Job, We’d Just Got a Shared Room in a Hostel, and I Thought Things Were Looking Up. Then: Screaming Baby, Nappies, Sleepless Nights. I’d Come Home After Night Shifts and He’d Still Be Screaming. I’d Lose My Temper. One Time, I Threw the Bottle Hard Against the Wall and It Smashed. Milk on the Floor. Gran Cried, Baby Screamed, I Just Stood There Wanting to Leave and Never Come Back. I Didn’t Leave. But For Years I Pretended That Was Just a Bad Day. Truth Was, I Was Pretty Close To Running. And If I Had, You Wouldn’t Be Reading These Letters. Not Sure Why You Need to Hear This—Maybe So You Know I’m Not a Hero. I’m Just an Ordinary Man Who Sometimes Wanted to Walk Out. If You Want to Stop Writing, I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read, Oscillating Between Hot and Cold Inside. The Image of Grandad Had Always Been a Warm Blanket, the Smell of Oranges at Christmas—Now It Was a Tired Guy in a Rented Room, Screaming Kid, Milk on the Floor. He Remembered That Last Summer, When He Worked at Kids’ Camp, He’d Yelled at a Boy Who Was Forever Whining. Grabbed Him Harder Than He Should. That Night, Sasha Lay Awake, Thinking He’d Make a Terrible Dad. He Looked a Long Time at the Blank Reply Box. His Fingers Typed ‘You’re Not a Monster.’ Deleted. ‘I Still Love You.’ Deleted—Couldn’t Say It Yet. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, I Won’t Stop Writing. I Don’t Know How You’re Supposed to Respond to That in Our Family. We Either Say Nothing or Joke. Last Summer I Worked at a Camp. There Was a Kid Who Cried All the Time. One Day I Lost It and Yelled So Much It Scared Me. Spent That Night Thinking I Was a Bad Person and Shouldn’t Have Kids. What You Wrote Doesn’t Make Me Think Less of You—It Just Makes You Real. Don’t Know If I Could Ever Be That Honest with My Own Kid Someday, but Maybe I Could at Least Try Not to Pretend I’m Always Right. Thanks for Not Leaving Back Then. Sasha.’ He Sent It—For the First Time Waiting for A Reply Like Something That Mattered, Not Just a Formality. Two Days Later, Mum Texted Instead of a Photo: ‘He’s Learned Voice Messages—But Asked Me to Write It for You.’ A New Photo Appeared of Lined Paper. ‘Sasha, I Read Your Letter and Thought—You’re Already Braver Than I Was At Your Age. At Least You Admit When You’re Scared. Back Then, I Pretended I Was Unshakable, and Ended Up Breaking Furniture. I Don’t Know If You’ll Be a Good Dad. Neither Do You. You Only Find Out as You Go. But the Fact You Even Wonder Says A Lot. You Said I Seem ‘Real’ to You Now. That’s the Best Compliment I’ve Had. Usually People Call Me ‘Stubborn,’ ‘Difficult,’ ‘Headstrong.’ No One’s Called Me ‘Real’ in Years. Since We’re At That Point, I Wanted to Ask—But Felt Awkward. If My Stories Get Too Much, Tell Me. I Can Write Less or Only On Holidays. I Don’t Want My Past to Weigh You Down. And If You Ever Want to Visit—For No Reason At All—I’ll Be Home. I’ve Got a Spare Stool and a Clean Mug Here. And Yes, I’ve Checked—It’s Clean. Your Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the Bit about the Mug. He Pictured the Kitchen—Glucose Meter on the Table, Spuds by the Radiator, The Spare Stool. He Snapped a Photo of His Shared Student Kitchen: Piled-Up Dishes, the ‘Scary’ Frying Pan, A Carton of Eggs, A Kettle, Two Mugs—One with a Chip, A Jar of Forks on the Windowsill. He Sent the Photo With This: ‘Hi Grandad, Here’s My Kitchen. Got Two Stools, Enough Mugs Too. If You Ever Want to Visit, I’ll Be Home—Or Nearly Home. You Haven’t Overstayed Your Welcome. Sometimes I Don’t Know What To Say, But That Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Reading. If You Like, Tell Me Something Not About Work or Food—Something You’ve Never Told Anyone. Not Because It’s Shameful, Just Because There Was No One To Tell. S.’ He Sent It and Realised He’d Just Asked an Adult in His Family a Question He’d Never Asked Before. He Set the Phone Down, Face Down—So He Wouldn’t Miss a New Message. 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You Just Don’t Know What Happiness Is — Half a million? — Karen stared at the notification on her phone, reading it three times before the number sank in. — Did you take out a loan for half a million pounds? Dylan was sitting on the sofa, glued to his own smartphone, not even looking up. — Oh, that… Yeah, it’s nothing. Just for Mum’s house repairs. You know her plumbing’s leaking, the floorboards are warped, the wallpaper is mouldy… — Wait. — Karen sank onto the armchair, her legs refusing to hold her up. — You got a loan. For half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without even telling me? Dylan finally looked up. His face showed genuine confusion, as if his wife was asking something utterly obvious. — Karen, it’s Mum. She lives alone, her pension’s tiny. Who else can help her? — But you didn’t even discuss it with me? — Karen’s voice rose, but she couldn’t stop. — You didn’t ask what I thought or warn me at all? — You’d have just argued — Dylan shrugged. — Mum needed it right away. Four years. Four years enduring this woman: nightly calls to check what Dylan had eaten, surprise visits with criticism on cleanliness, family dinners with Karen seated at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill — Dylan kept his calm tone. — We’ll manage. We’ll pay it back quickly; it’s not a big sum. It’s just family. The tears came hot and furious. Karen wiped them away with the back of her hand, smudging mascara across her cheeks. — Family? Am I family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she threw my things out of the guest room because she “couldn’t sleep among someone else’s clutter”? How on my birthday you and she went to choose her a new fridge? — That’s all trivial — Dylan dismissed. — You’re just tired, you need a break. Karen looked at him — tall, soft features, dimples she once found charming. Now he just looked like a thirty-year-old boy who couldn’t cut the apron strings. — We’ll get through this — he repeated like a mantra. — Love conquers all. Karen silently walked to the bedroom. Two large sports bags sat in the closet, the ones she brought when she first moved in. She pulled them out, dumped them on the bed, and started opening drawers. Dylan appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, the first bag packed to the brim. — What are you doing? Karen, this is silly. You can’t be serious. She didn’t answer. Carefully folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Took down her jewellery box — gifts from family and friends. Nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s up in Manchester! She zipped the second bag, checked her handbag — passport, bank card, keys to her mother’s flat, just in case. — Karen, say something! You can’t just leave me. I love you! She gave him a long, silent look, then picked up her bags and walked out. … The next morning, Karen stood in line at the registry office, gripping the signed divorce application. Rain dotted the windows, grey clouds hung low, but inside, there was a strange calm. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two in the morning. Karen sat bolt upright on her friend Lisa’s sofa, momentarily lost. — We have to talk — Dylan’s breathing was ragged, words scattered. — I get it now, I’ll change. Give me one chance. She let the call go. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Karen, I can’t live without you. You’re my whole world. By morning, forty-three messages had arrived. Each long, tearful, desperate — full of promises and threats. “If you don’t come back, I don’t know what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being difficult.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week later, he started appearing at her office. Karen left for lunch — there he was by the sandwich shop. Walked to the tube station after work — saw him across the road. — Just passing by — Dylan grinned when Karen demanded an explanation. — Wanted to see you. One evening, the doorbell rang at Lisa’s flat. Karen answered without checking — expecting the pizza delivery. Dylan stood outside, clutching red roses. — Just one chance — he whispered. — I won’t ask for more. Karen shut the door silently. He stood outside for two hours, until neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — as one adjusts to chronic pain. Not reading messages, blocking unknown numbers, not looking over her shoulder. Changed jobs to remote work, moved to a suburb where Dylan couldn’t just bump into her. The divorce went through after three months. Karen stepped out of the courthouse with the official paper in hand, crying at the steps — out of relief, not grief. The first months of freedom were scary in their emptiness. Karen had always checked every decision with someone — even when that someone did what they pleased anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she liked, regardless of whether Mrs Evans approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch things like that.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — a dream Dylan called “a waste of money.” Began morning yoga, before sunrise, when the city was still quiet. Took a solo weekend trip to Brighton, wandered the lanes, sampling fudge and admiring the seaside. After half a year, the calls stopped. The messages too. Karen braced herself for a catch, then another month passed, and she realised she could finally relax. She landed a job at a marketing agency — bright office, young team, exciting projects. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at a company party — her colleague Marie dragged her along. — He’s our top programmer — Marie introduced the tall man in slim glasses. — Andrew, meet Karen from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, gentle. Smiled — easily, without posturing. — You’ve escaped karaoke too? — he nodded toward the stage, where finance was butchering “Wonderwall.” — Protecting my nerves — Karen grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, how odd life is. Andrew listened more than spoke, asking questions and waiting for her answers. Never lecturing, never telling her how to live. When he learned she was divorced, he just nodded, then changed the subject. …Six months later, they moved in together, picking a small, bright flat in the city centre with high windows facing a quiet courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Karen asked at the last viewing. — Should we see more? — Do you like it? — Andrew turned to her. — Yes, I really do. — Then let’s take it. Little things — having her opinion matter — meant far more than any flowery speeches. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, with the sky painted in pinks and golds. Took out a small box, opened it — inside shone a diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up beside you every day. If you can put up with my snoring and bad coffee. Karen laughed through her tears and nodded… …That May evening began like any other. Andrew was working late — urgent deadline, code bug. Karen cooked pasta, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang: sharp, persistent, demanding. She looked through the spyhole and recoiled. Dylan stood in the hallway — pale, eyes sunken, shirt crumpled. Two years, two years of silence — then he was here. — Karen, open up! — his fist hammered on the door. — I know you’re there! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dylan shouted. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook as he threw himself against it, trying to barge in. Karen pressed her back to the door, braced her feet. — Leave! — she screamed. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice turned shrill. — You were mine, you always will be! Two years I’ve been waiting for you to see sense! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s not over! — he shoved the door again, and she barely kept it closed. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t understand your own happiness! Open up, let’s talk! She glimpsed his face in the spyhole — twisted, obsessed. No longer the man she’d once shared a bed with. Karen dialled 999. — Dylan! One call — the police will be here. Leave. Now. Dylan froze. A few seconds of silence. Then he spun round and stormed toward the stairs. Down below, the front door crashed. Karen slid down against the wall, ears ringing. Only after half an hour did she stand and call Andrew. The police accepted the report next day. The officer — an older man with a moustache — wrote everything down, listened, nodded. — We’ll sort it. We’ll have a word. Whatever he said to Dylan, Karen never knew. But her ex never showed up again. No calls, no messages, no accidental run-ins. …The wedding took place at a country restaurant in early June — just twenty friends. No fuss, no groom’s relatives insisting on tradition. Karen stood opposite Andrew in her simple white dress, hands clasped in his. Through the window, birch trees whispered, the air smelled of blossoms and freshly cut grass. — Do you take… — the officiant began. — I do — Karen replied before he finished, and laughter filled the room. Andrew slid a slim gold ring onto her finger — engraved inside were three words: “Always with you.” Karen looked up at the man who would now be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not an obsessed pursuer. Just a man, who knew how to listen, respect, and love. Ahead, awaited a life where her voice truly mattered…
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My Husband Refuses to Give the Flat to Our Daughter—Should We Let Her Move In, Sell and Split the Money Between Our Children, or Is There a Better Solution?
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When My Mother Discovered I Was Married, Had a Good Job, and Owned My Own Flat, She Turned Up Asking Me for Financial Support