Worn Down by My Mother-in-Law and Wife That Evening, the Most Silent and Patient Man in Our Village, Steven Evans, Came to See Me—A Man as Steadfast as Iron Nails, With Broad Calloused Hands and Centuries of Quiet in His Eyes; Known for His Reluctance to Complain Yet Always the First to Lend a Hand, He Stood in My Small Local Surgery, Shoulders Slumped, Ushanka Gripped in Muddy Hands, and When He Finally Spoke, His Voice Broke with the Weariness of a Husband Pushed to the Edge by Years of Unkindness From Wife and Mother-in-Law, Until With One Tear, One Quiet Confession—“I’m Leaving, Mrs. Simmons. I Can’t Do This Anymore. I Have Nothing Left”—It Became Clear the Real Illness Was a Soul Worn Thin by Indifference, and Its Only Cure Might Just Be a Kind Word, a Cup of Tea, and Learning That the Greatest Comfort Is Belonging—Not Just as a Pair of Strong Hands, But as Someone Who Is Truly Needed and Loved at Home.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 min

Diary entry 12th November

Some evenings, the smallest things can leave the deepest marks on your heart. Last night, the quietest and most steadfast man in our village, Stephen Harris, walked into my little surgery. You know the type strong as an oak, back straight as a doorframe, hands like spades etched with calluses, an ageless calm in his eyes, as if he belonged more to the land than to the troubles of men. Never a word too many, never a complaint. If the vicarage needed fixing or old Mrs. Thompson required firewood, Stephen appeared, set to work in silence, and departed with only a nod.

And yet, yesterday, he came to me. I can picture him now the surgery door swung open without a sound, the way only an autumn gust could manage. He stood on the threshold, clutching his flat cap, his gaze fixed on the worn planks of my floor. Rain dripped from his coat, boots caked with Wiltshire mud. Id never seen him so hunched, so defeated it made my heart jump to my throat.

Come in, Stephen, dont stand out there letting the night in, I said, gently, and put the kettle on. Some aches are soothed better by strong tea than any medicine, after all.

He drifted in, sitting on the edge of the camp bed, head still bowed. The only sound was the wall clock, counting out his silence. Each tick thudded heavier than any cry for help, pressing on the air until my little room was full to bursting with unspoken pain. I nudged a mug of hot tea into his frosty hands. His fingers were almost blue.

He clung to the mug, trembling so much that the tea spilt over the rim. Then I saw it: a single heavy tear slid down his unshaven cheek, followed by another. No sobs, no wailing just the silent heartbreak of a decent man worn thin.

Im leaving, Mary, he whispered so quietly, I nearly missed it. Thats it. I cant do this anymore. I havent the strength.

I sat beside him, my old hand rough over his. His hand flinched for a heartbeat, but stayed beneath mine.

Leaving who, Stephen?

My women, he replied, his voice a dull murmur. The wife, Emily her mother. Theyve pecked me until theres nothing left, Mary. Like a pair of crows. Whatever I do is wrong. I make soup while Emilys at the dairy too salty, potatoes cut wrong. I put up a shelf crooked, other men manage better, but not you. I dig over the veg patch not deep enough, weeds left. It never ends. Not a kind word, not a warm look. Just constant nettle sting.

He paused. Sipped his tea.

Im no lord, he said. I know its hard. Emilys at the farm from dawn till dusk, working herself sour. Her mother, Mrs. Parker, can hardly walk now; sits by the range and snaps at the world. I do my bit. Up before sunrise to light the fire, fetch water, see to the chickens, then off to work. Come home, and they still find fault. One word out of turn and Im in the doghouse for a week. Say nothing, its worse Cat got your tongue? Scheming, are you? Even a soul made of iron would tire in the end.

He kept looking at the dancing firelight, talking as if the dam had finally burst. Spoke of weeks of silence, treated as invisible. Of hushed whispers behind his back. Of how theyd hide away the best damson jam for themselves. On Emilys birthday, hed bought her a woollen scarf with his bonus; she tossed it into a chest Youd do better buying yourself boots, you make a laughing stock of me in those rags.

I watched this big, gentle giant a man who could fell a bull with one hand slumped, weeping like an abandoned pup. It pierced me with grief.

I built that house with my hands, Mary, he murmured. Knew every beam. Thought itd be a nest. A family. Turns out just a cage. And the birds in it peck your eyes out. This morning Emilys mother went on again The door squeaks, I cant rest, what sort of man?. I picked up my axe told myself, fix the hinge. Instead, I found myself looking at the old apple tree, thinking dark thoughts Only just managed to walk away. Packed a satchel, grabbed a slice of bread, and made for yours instead. Ill find a barn for the night, then make for the station first thing. Let them manage. Maybe then, once Im gone, theyll find one kind word for me. After its too late.

Right then, I realised how close to the edge he was that this was more than tiredness. His spirit was at its limit. He needed kindness, not medicine.

Listen here, Harris, I said, my sternest tone. Wipe your eyes. This wont do. Running off, is it? Have you thought, whatll become of them? Emily coping with the farm alone? Mrs. Parker helpless? Youre their responsibility!

And who carries me, Mary? he smiled, wry and sad. Whos there for me?

I am, I answered firmly. And Ill treat you. The diagnosis is soul-worn thin. Only cure is rest, and kindness. Now, go home. Dont answer a word to their carping. Lie down, back to the room. Ill come by myself in the morning. Youre not running anywhere. Understood?

He looked unconvinced, but I caught the flicker of hope in his eyes. He finished the tea, nodded, and slipped out into the sodden darkness. I sat by the fire a long while, mulling over how the best medicine a kind word is often the rarest.

At first light, I set off for theirs. Emily answered, face pinched and sleepless.

What brings you out so early, Mary?

Im here to check on Stephen, I replied, sweeping past her.

The house felt cold and cheerless. Mrs. Parker sat wrapped in a shawl, staring at me as if Id brought bad luck. Stephen lay on the bed, as Id ordered, turned to the wall.

No need to look at him, fit as a fiddle, just idle, muttered Emilys mother. Ought to be working instead of lazing all day.

I sat by Stephen, checked his brow, and listened in the way we pretend with stethoscopes when the truths there in the eyes. He lay still as a mouse, jaw clenched.

I stood and faced the women, as hard as I could manage. Youre in real trouble, you two, I said. His hearts wound tight as piano wire. He is at the breaking point. If it snaps, youll be left alone.

They exchanged a glance Emily was stunned, her mother, sceptical.

Oh, dont be daft, Mary, scoffed Mrs. Parker, he was splitting logs yesterday.

That was yesterday, I retorted. Today, the wells run dry. Youve ground him down. Your endless carping, your nit-picking. Did you think him made of stone? Hes flesh and blood, feelings and all. Right now, he aches so deeply hed howl if he could. You want treatment? Heres my prescription: utter rest. No chores, no demands. Peace and quiet. Understood? Not a single harsh word. Only care and kindness. Treat him like hes made of spun glass. Feed him broth, wrap him up warm. Or else Well, Ill have to send for the ambulance, and none of us wants that.

I meant it, and saw true fear flicker there. For all their sharp tongues, he was their wall. The dread of that wall crumbling shook them.

Emily crept to the bed, brushed Stephens shoulder. Mrs. Parker, lips thin, just sat, eyes shifty with worry.

I left, letting them wrestle with their fear and guilty conscience. I waited.

Stephen told me later, in a whisper, that first days were all awkward hush. They crept about, talking in whispers. Emily brought him soup and disappeared. Mrs. Parker crossed herself passing him. It felt strange, unnatural, but the shouting stopped.

Later, things softened. One morning, he woke to baked apples his childhood favourite, with cinnamon, same way his mother made. Emily sat peeling more at the foot of his bed. Startled, she simply murmured, Eat up, Stephen. Theyre warm.

For the first time in years, he saw care in her eyes awkward, unsteady, but real.

A day or two on, Mrs. Parker fetched him wool socks shed knitted, muttering gruffly, Keep your feet warm. Draught comes in under the window. There was no spite in it.

He lay there, looking at the ceiling, and for the first time in ages, felt seen as a person, not a pair of working hands. He was needed, but not just for what he did.

A week passed. I called again. The change amazed me. The house was warm, the smell of fresh bread hung in the air. Stephen sat at the table, colour back in his cheeks. Emily poured him milk; Mrs. Parker nudged the plate of pie nearer. They werent exactly cooing, but the dread and tension had lifted.

Stephens eyes met mine. I saw quiet gratitude and for the first time, a real smile one that made the whole house seem brighter. Emily, seeing it, smiled back. Mrs. Parker turned to the window, but I saw her wipe a tear with her sleeve.

I never needed to doctor them again. They became their own cure. They never became a storybook family. Mrs. Parker still grumbled out of old habit, and Emily snapped now and then. But now, after her grumble, Mrs. Parker would head off to brew Stephen tea with raspberry jam, and Emily, after snapping, would come over to squeeze his shoulder. Theyd learned to see the person, not the flaws: weary, beloved, and real.

Some evenings, I stroll past and spot the three of them on the old stone bench. Stephen mending something, the women chatting quietly, shelling peas or just watching the clouds. Something about it fills me with a lovely, rustic peace. The greatest happiness isnt from grand gestures or costly gifts. Real joy is the hush of a gentle evening, the scent of apple pie, hand-knit socks pulled on by caring hands the rock-solid knowledge that youre home. That you matter.

So I ask myself, my dears, what heals us better sharp pills, or a kind word in time? And I wonder, does it sometimes take a jolt of real fear for us to truly appreciate the good we have at home?

Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The orphanage has missed you for years! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a voice on the verge of breaking. The target of my utter fury was my cousin, Danny. Dear God, how I adored him as a child—wheat-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful spirit. That was Danny all over. The whole family often gathered for festive meals. Of all my cousins, I singled out Danny. He could twist words as deftly as a lacemaker, and he drew with real talent. On a good night, he’d dash off five or six lovely sketches in pencil. I’d stare, entranced, and quietly stash away his drawings in my writing desk, cherishing his art. Danny was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mum—my father’s little sister—died suddenly. She just didn’t wake up one morning. The question arose: what to do with Danny? We tried his dad, but it wasn’t simple. His parents had long divorced, and his dad had a new family and refused to upset their happy course. Everyone else just shrugged and muttered about having their own lives. Family in the daylight, but after sunset, nowhere to be found. So, with two children of their own, my parents became Danny’s legal guardians. At first, I was thrilled he’d live with us. However… On his very first day in our house, Danny’s behaviour unsettled me. Mum, wanting to comfort the orphan, asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Danny? Don’t be shy.” Instantly, he replied, “A toy train set.” For the eighties, it was wildly expensive. I was shocked—your mum just died, your world collapsed, yet all you want is a train set? But my parents bought it at once. Then came, “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” Expensive, hard-to-get things. My parents stretched to grant his wishes, denying themselves and us; my brother and I kept quiet and tried to understand. At sixteen, Danny discovered girls. Turned out, my dear cousin was rather a Don Juan—and then he started hitting on me, his own cousin! Fortunately, I was tough and could fend him off, but we fought—physically and emotionally. I cried for hours. I never told my parents; kids rarely voice such personal pain. When I rejected him, Danny swiftly moved on to my friends, who actively competed for his favour. And then Danny started stealing. Blatantly. I’d been saving pocket money to buy presents for my parents—one day my piggybank was simply empty! Danny denied everything, stone-faced, not a blush of guilt. My soul was torn in two—how could he, living under our roof, steal from us? Danny, like a wrecking ball, shattered our family’s harmony. I stewed, resentful, as he genuinely saw nothing wrong—he believed the world owed him. And eventually I yelled at him, for all I was worth: “Get out of our family!” I lashed out at him like a storm, saying more than I could possibly recall. Mum barely managed to calm me. Since then, Danny no longer existed for me—I ignored him completely. Later I learned, other relatives knew just what kind of person Danny was—they all lived close by and had seen it all; our family lived farther away and hadn’t known. Even Danny’s teachers warned my parents: “He’ll be nothing but trouble—even damage your own children.” In his new school, a girl named Kate fell head over heels for him. She married Danny right after school, had a daughter, and patiently endured his antics, lies, endless affairs. The saying “double the trouble when you marry off” fit her perfectly. She gave him unwavering love that, somehow, Danny never deserved. Danny was later called up for National Service, stationed in Yorkshire. There, he set up “another” family. Somehow, during his leaves, he got involved, and after demob, had a son up north. Kate, undaunted, tracked him down and brought him back home to London by hook or by crook. My parents never heard a single thank you from Danny. Not that they expected it. Today Daniel Evans is 60, devoted churchgoer, five lovely grandchildren with Kate. All seems well, yet the bitterness from our relationship with him lingers… And I still can’t bring myself to share honey with him.

Injustice “Mum,” Alina repeated, “Why didn’t I get the whole million? Why just three hundred and thirty thousand… What’s with that amount?” She could hear the hairdryer buzzing at her mum’s. Vera switched it off and called back to Alina: “Yes, that’s right,” Vera, ever so resourceful when it came to someone else’s million, replied. “Three hundred and thirty.” But Alina was supposed to have received much more. “Three hundred and thirty? Mum, where’s the other six hundred and seventy thousand? I was expecting almost a million. It’s Dad’s money—you were supposed to transfer it after selling the flat.” “Oh Alina, don’t start on your accounting again,” her mother tutted, “I did everything properly, you know that.” “Properly? Pardon me, but how is that ‘proper’? The floor creaked indignantly underfoot. “I gave you power of attorney to sell my flat, the one I inherited from my father. I asked you to transfer the money. Where is it, exactly?” Relaxing, it turned out, had been a mistake. “And I did!” The hairdryer fired up again. “But I acted as a mother, a good mother. I shared it out amongst all the children. Equally. Your legal third is in your account.” What she was truly owed should have been hers. “You split my father’s legacy three ways? For me and for them?” Alina meant her stepbrothers. “Mum, that money was mine! My father’s! We have different fathers, in case you’ve forgotten.” “What difference does it make who the father is?” her mother replied, now styling her hair. “The money is for the family. They’re your brothers. I’m your mother. Did you want me to sit by, watching you enjoy all that money, while your brothers just looked on? No, it had to be fair! I equalised everyone’s chances.” She wished she could go back to the day she signed that power of attorney and give her younger self a good shake… “Equally? You split my million into three? Three hundred and thirty-three thousand each! Where’s the rest, Mum? And the flat sold for a bit more than that.” “Yes, there was a little over a million after deductions and taxes,” Vera answered. “I rounded it off. And the extra—I kept it for all the hassle. Would you have dealt with all that paperwork? No! I did everything while you worked.” “Lucky you didn’t wear yourself out!” “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” her mum snapped. “Your father may have been your dad, but I’m your mum. I decide. And besides, you’re a grown girl, the oldest, you need less than they do. I divided it equally. The boys need to start families soon. You’re a girl—a lot less is expected of you.” “So I don’t need a family of my own, then? Should I starve just because I’m a girl and ‘less is expected’?” Alina snapped back sarcastically. “Transfer the rest of the money. Now.” “No.” Short and sharp. Full stop. Her mother knew Alina wouldn’t do anything about it. Sue her own mum over money? No one would understand, everyone would judge. Mum is still mum—and at least they still talked. A couple of weeks later, after she’d calmed down and sorted her finances, Alina saw the photos on social media. Ivan posed with his brand new blue Polo. Dima posted, “My new ride!” The brothers had bought themselves cheap cars. Well, so be it. Alina set her three hundred and thirty thousand aside and decided to wait. Patience, as her gran always said, is golden. More than a year passed. Alina worked, saved, planned. She’d moved on, but hadn’t forgotten. Mum acted as if nothing had happened—still called, still chatted away. But today her mother’s voice was oddly chilling. Alina tensed. “What’s happened, Mum?” “Granny—” her mum stammered “—Ivan and Dima’s gran… she died this morning.” Alina felt a strange, cinematic detachment. That granny was never her granny, never played any role in her life. For Alina, she was just “mum’s mother-in-law” or “the boys’ gran.” Of course, she felt sorry for the loss. “Oh… my condolences.” “Someone has to organise the funeral, the paperwork—I’m all alone. The boys… they don’t know what to do. Can you come? Can you help?” Not out of spite, Alina explained she couldn’t get leave from work—it simply wasn’t possible for her to drop everything and fly across the country for the funeral of someone she’d met maybe three times. “Mum, I’m at work. I actually can’t make it to the funeral of a person I barely knew,” Alina replied. They’d never invited her to granny’s. “Oh please!” her mum begged. “I really, really need help.” “I can’t come, but I’ll help with money. How much do you need? Tell me—I’ll send it straight away.” Her mother hesitated, but didn’t say no. Money was always welcome. “It’s not the same, of course… but fine. Can you add twenty thousand?” “Of course. And Mum—I’ll send a little more besides, so you’ve got something for the little things. Call it my contribution to her memory… to their gran’s memory.” “Thank you, darling. You always help.” Alina hung up, feeling a grim satisfaction. She’d bought herself the excuse: she hadn’t gone, but she’d helped. No one could reproach her now. Six months passed, and the funeral faded into the background. Dima and Ivan seemed to have new toys—maybe motorbikes or new phones. One quiet Tuesday, Alina decided it was time. Sitting in the staff canteen, prepping for another meeting, she phoned her mum. “Hi Mum! How are you?” “Alina! All good. Dima’s got a new job—better than the old one. Ivan’s fine too, met a girl.” “I’m glad,” Alina replied. “Mum, I wanted to ask about something…” “What about?” her mother sounded wary. “I presume the six months have passed since granny’s death. Have all the inheritance matters been settled?” This conversation was even harder than the one over the original three hundred and thirty thousand. “Alina, what are you getting at? Of course it’s settled.” “So—where’s my share of the inheritance?” “What inheritance?” Mum feigned innocence, but Alina could tell she was lying; it was obvious. “From granny.” “But she wasn’t your gran.” “And what difference does that make?” Alina led her mum to her own logic, “I’m your child, you said no child should be deprived. You split my million three ways—made everything fair, remember?” “Alina, this is different!” Vera protested. “Totally different!” “How exactly is it different? You said inheritance is family property, you decide, and all children must be supported equally.” “Oh, don’t compare the situations…” “How convenient!” Alina retorted, dripping with sarcasm. “When it was my million—my father’s inheritance—suddenly everything had to be split in the name of family unity. But when it comes to their granny’s flat, now the inheritance strictly follows bloodline?” “Stop twisting my words!” her mother huffed. “You can’t mean you want to claim your brothers’ inheritance? How am I meant to explain that to the boys?” “I just want you to acknowledge you abused my trust by taking a third of my money on the grounds of ‘one family, one inheritance’. I’d like to use the same logic now, since you’re so fond of it. You helped them sell the flat, didn’t you?” “The money’s already gone.” “Gone where? Cars? Decorating? Then I want in too. Where’s my share, Mum? You told me I had to make do with less because I’m a girl. I don’t agree.” Her mother was taking her time, obviously chewing over how to wriggle out of the trap she herself had set a year before. In their family, it had always been this way. For the boys, her stepdad was Dad: they got all the best, all the necessary. That granny couldn’t stand Alina—she was only the “outsider” girl, never really a granddaughter. And her mother had never stuck up for her. “What’s wrong with you, Alina?” At a loss, her mum resorted to indignation. “Why do you need the money? You’ve got a job, you’re young, you’re healthy. You don’t need as much. Dima and Ivan—well, they need to start thinking about homes. They’re men! It’s harder for them!” “So, to sum up: my father’s inheritance is family property, because we’re siblings. Their granny’s inheritance is personal, because they’re men and I’m only a girl expected to need less?” “Don’t be cheeky,” her mother snapped. “Where does all your greed come from?” Her mother would never admit she was wrong. To her, Alina was just a penny-pincher for daring to demand fairness. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but that power of attorney obliges you to transfer the full proceeds from the flat. And the statute of limitations hasn’t expired. Not to threaten you, but…” “Alina! You’re not threatening your own mother, are you?” her mother whispered nervously. “No, Mum. Just reminding you—I’m still entitled to claim my money. Think about it.” Within a month, the full owed amount landed in Alina’s account. And then, pointedly, she was blocked.

Every Tuesday Rushing Through the Underground with an Empty Bag: Liana’s Search for the Perfect Gift, Childhood Memories, and the Quiet Rituals That Bind Us Across Distance Every Tuesday, Liana hurried through the London Underground, clutching an empty plastic shopping bag—a stark symbol of her failed two-hour hunt across high street shops for a gift worthy of her 10-year-old goddaughter, Hannah. Long gone were the days of unicorn toys—now it was astronomy that sparked Hannah’s imagination, and finding a decent telescope that didn’t break the bank felt like an astronomical feat. Evening had fallen, and a distinct fatigue lingered throughout the tube. As she squeezed onto the escalator, Liana caught a snippet of conversation behind her—a young, wavering voice, clear amid the commuter chaos. “…Honestly, I never thought I’d see him again. But now, every Tuesday, he picks her up from nursery. In his car. They go to that very park with the carousel…” Liana froze on the rumbling steps, glancing back just in time to spot the speaker—a woman in a bright red coat, excited face lit up in storytelling, with a friend listening intently. Every Tuesday. She’d once had such a day. Not a stressful Monday, or a Friday full of weekend anticipation, but Tuesday—a day her world revolved around. Every Tuesday, at precisely five, she’d dart from the school where she taught English and literature, dashing across the city to the Royal College of Music in an old building with creaking floors. She’d collect Mark, her precocious seven-year-old nephew with a violin nearly as tall as he was—a boy made suddenly solemn when his father, Liana’s brother Daniel, died in a tragic accident. In those first hard months after the funeral, these Tuesday rituals were a lifeline—for Mark, locked silent in his grief; for his mother Sarah, who could barely rise from bed; and for Liana, anchoring what she could of their shattered lives. She remembered everything: Mark’s quiet shuffle out of lessons, handing off the heavy violin case, their journeys on the tube as she told him stories—of silly classroom typos and clever city crows. One rainy November, Mark suddenly asked, “Auntie Liana, did Dad hate the rain too?” Liana, aching with love and loss, replied gently, “He did. Always ran for cover at the first drop.” Mark took her hand, not to be led, but to keep hold of something slipping away—not just her, but the memory of his father, real and ordinary and missed. For three years, her life was before and after, and Tuesday was the pivot—a day she lived through the hardest and most genuine moments, while others blurred into background noise. She prepared meticulously: apple juice for Mark, cartoons preloaded for tube journeys, new anecdotes for conversation. Then, slowly, Sarah found work. Eventually, love. When she chose to start fresh in a new city, Liana packed their boxes, zipped Mark’s violin into a soft case, hugged him hard on the platform. “Write. Call. I’ll always pick up.” At first, the Tuesday calls were clockwork. She transformed, briefly, back into Auntie Liana, ready to squeeze a whole week’s questions into fifteen minutes. Even as the calls became fortnightly, then just on birthdays and Christmas, she understood—new schools, new clubs, a stepfather named Steve, and eventually, a baby sister, Emma. The photos showed Mark holding Emma with awkward tenderness, life’s unstoppable march healing and reshaping scars. Now, in the hum of evening, the overheard “every Tuesday” didn’t sting—it echoed. A gentle reminder of the anchor she once was, the quiet, steadfast love of being truly needed. The woman in red had her own story, her own hard balance between memory and present. But “every Tuesday”—this stubborn ritual—was a language everyone knows: I’m here, you can count on me, you’re important to me, this hour, this day. As the train pulled in, Liana straightened, her reflection steady in the black tunnel glass. She stepped off, knowing tomorrow she’d order two matching telescopes—modest, but special. One for Hannah. One for Mark, posted to his door. She’d message him: “Mark, now we can watch the same stars, even in different cities. Next Tuesday at six—if the sky’s clear—shall we both look for the Big Dipper and sync our watches? Love, Auntie Liana.” Rising into a crisp London evening, Liana found her next Tuesday newly filled—not an obligation, but a gentle promise between two people forever connected by memory, gratitude, and the quiet, unbreakable thread of family. Life moved on. But in her calendar there were still days not just to endure—but to appoint. For rituals of wonder shared across miles, for memories that comfort instead of ache, for a love that’s grown quieter, stronger, wise to the languages of distance.

Grandma Always Chose One Grandchild — “What about me, Gran?” Katya would ask softly. — “You’re a good girl, Katya. Just look at those cheeks. The nuts are for thinking, and Dima needs to study—he’s a man. Our family’s future.” — “You get on now, go dust the shelves, dear. A girl’s got to learn the value of hard work.” “Are you serious, Katya? She’s not got long… The doctors said a couple of days, maybe hours…” Dima, clutching his car keys, looked wretched in the kitchen doorway. “I’m absolutely serious, Dima. Want some tea?” Katya kept slicing apple for her daughter without turning around. “Tea? Now?” Dima stepped further in. “She’s lying there, tubes everywhere, gasping…” “She was calling for you this morning. ‘Where’s my Katya?’ she asked. My heart broke. Won’t you go see her?” “She’s your grandma! This is your last chance…” Katya arranged the apple slices on a plate and finally faced her brother. “To you, she’s Grandma. To her, you’re Dima—the golden boy, the one and only heir.” “And me? I never really existed for her.” “Are you sure I need some ‘goodbye’? What should I forgive her? Or she, me?” “Oh, give over, Kat!” Dima slammed his keys down. “Yes, she loved me more. So what? She’s old, set in her ways. But she’s dying! Do you really have to be so… cruel?” “I’m not cruel, Dima. I just feel nothing for her. Go on. Sit with her if you must. Your hand will mean more to her than I ever could.” “You’re her golden child. Shine on for her till the end.” Dima looked at his sister, turned sharply, and left, the door snapping shut behind him. Katya sighed, picked up the plate, and headed to her daughter’s room. *** In their family, things were always split down the middle. Their parents loved Katya and Dima equally. The house was always full of laughter, baking, constant coming and going. But Grandma Claudia was a different sort. “Dima darling, come here, my boy,” Grandma would croon when they visited. “Look what I’ve saved for you! Freshly shelled walnuts, and a whole bag of teacakes, just for you!” Seven-year-old Katya would watch as the special treats appeared from the old cupboard. “And me, Grandma?” she’d ask quietly. A sharp glance was all she’d get. “You’re well enough as you are, Katya. Look at those rosy cheeks. Dima needs brains for school—he’s the man. And you go on and dust those shelves. A girl must get used to her chores.” Dima, red with embarrassment, would pocket his goodie bag and sneak away, while Katya went off to the dusting. She didn’t even feel hard done by. It was just the weather—sometimes it rains, sometimes Grandma loves Dima more. Dima would always be waiting for her on the landing. “Here.” He’d push half the treats and a handful of walnuts into her hand. “Just don’t eat them in front of her, or she’ll moan again.” “You need them more—for your brains.” Katya would smile. “Oh, forget it,” Dima would grin, “she’s bonkers. Quick, eat up, before she comes!” They’d sit, munching their forbidden sweets on the stairs to the attic. Dima always shared, no matter what—even when Grandma sneaked him money “for ice cream”, he’d come running: “Hey, enough here for a couple of 99s and some bubblegum. Let’s go!” Her brother had always been her rock—the warmth he gave filled the gap left by Grandma’s chill so well that Katya hardly noticed. Years passed. Grandma Claudia aged, and when Dima turned eighteen, proclaimed that he’d get her precious city flat. “A man must have his own place to bring his wife home to!” Mum just sighed—she knew better than to argue. That night, she came to Katya. “Don’t worry, love… Your father and I will give you what we’ve saved. A nest egg towards your own home. To keep things fair.” “Mum, it’s okay,” Katya hugged her. “Dima needs it more—he’s starting a family. I’ll be fine in halls for a while.” “No, love. We can’t give to one and not the other. Take it, and don’t argue.” But Katya didn’t. Dima moved into Grandma’s flat. Katya got her brother’s old room, filled it with her books and art, and for the first time felt what it was like not to have love measured out on scales. Dima felt guilty. “Come round, Kat,” he’d say. “Irina’s made apple tart. Oh, and Gran called—wanted to know if I’d wasted ‘her’ money buying you things…” “And what did you say?” “I said I’d blown it all on pinball and fine brandy,” Dima would laugh. “She huffed for a full minute, then said: ‘That Katya’s been a bad influence on you!’” “Of course! Who else?” *** When Katya married Oleg and a baby arrived, housing became urgent. Their mum swept in. “Look, we’ve got our big three-bed. Dima has his place. Katya, you rent. Let’s swap—Dad and I’ll take a small flat, Katya gets the bigger place for her family.” “Mum,” Dima jumped in, “I waive all claim to our old place. I’ve got Gran’s flat, more than enough. Let Katya have what she needs—they’ve got a child.” “Dima, are you sure?” Oleg was taken aback. “That’s a lot of money…” “I’m sure. Kat and I have always shared. She missed out because of Gran. Don’t argue. I mean it.” Katya cried—not over the money, but because her brother was good, through and through. They swapped flats, and everyone had what they needed. Mum came to help often; Dima and his family visited every weekend. Grandma Claudia lived alone. Dima delivered shopping, fixed leaks, listened to her complaining about her health—and “ungrateful Katya”. “She never calls. Never once asks after me!” “Gran, you never wanted to know her,” Dima would say gently. “You never said a kind word to her in twenty years. Why would she call?” “I was bringing her up! Women should know their place! And look at her—grabbed herself a flat, turned her mother out!” Dima would only sigh. No point arguing. *** Katya would sit in the quiet kitchen, recalling things: Her hand pushed away from the jam. Her certificate ignored, while Dima’s childlike sketch was praised. At Dima’s wedding Grandma sat proud as a queen, but she missed Katya’s—“not well”. “Mum, why don’t we see Grandma Clarrie?” her daughter asked. “Uncle Dima says she’s really ill.” “Grandma Clarrie only wants to see Uncle Dima, love. It’s how she is.” “Is she mean?” the girl squinted. “No,” Katya mulled. “She just couldn’t love everyone. Her heart only had room for one. It happens sometimes.” That evening Dima called. “She’s gone, Kat. About an hour ago.” “I’m sorry, Dima. I know this is so hard.” “She kept asking for you,” Dima lied, wanting peace between them. “She said: ‘I hope Katya will be happy.’” “Thank you, Dima… Come over tomorrow. We’ll have a little gathering. I’ll bake a pie.” “I will… Kat, do you regret not going?” Katya didn’t lie. “No, Dima. I don’t. Why be hypocritical? She never wanted to see me. Nor I, her.” A pause. “Maybe you’re right. Always the sensible one… See you tomorrow.” At the funeral, Katya stood in black a little apart. Dima took her shoulder. “You all right?” “I’m fine, Dima. Really.” “Look, I was sorting her flat and found an old box… It was full of photos. You’re in loads, all carefully clipped out, kept separate. Why, do you think?” Katya raised her brows, surprised. “I don’t know. Maybe she cared, just couldn’t show it? Or was scared loving you meant loving me less? Old folks… they’re odd.” “Maybe,” Katya shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter now.” They walked out together under one umbrella—tall Dima and delicate Katya. “Listen,” Dima said by the cars, “I’ll sell that place. Buy a bigger flat for us, little ones for the boys, and the rest… Let’s set up a fund. Or give it to a children’s hospital. Let that ‘grandma’s money’ do some good at last.” Katya smiled warmly for the first time in days. “You know, Dima… that would be the best revenge on Gran Claudia. The kindest revenge there is.” “Deal?” “Deal.” They drove away in different directions, Katya letting the city’s music wash over her as she finally felt a deep, settling calm. Maybe Dima was right. Let some of that money help a child. That would be fair.