Wow, Dad, you really got a welcoming committee! And what did you need that health resort for if you’ve got ‘all-inclusive’ right here at home? When Dmitri handed Eva the keys to his flat, she realised: the fortress was conquered. No DiCaprio ever waited for his Oscar like Eva waited for her Dmitri—now with her own little nest. Disheartened at thirty-five, she was casting sympathetic glances at stray cats and craft shop windows more and more often. And there he was—a solitary soul who’d spent his youth on career, healthy eating, gym memberships, and other nonsense like ‘finding himself’, and still no kids. Eva had wished for this gift since she was twenty, and it seemed the heavens finally understood she wasn’t joking. ‘I have one last business trip this year, and I’m all yours,’ Dmitri said, handing over the precious keys. ‘Just don’t be alarmed by my cave. I usually come home only to sleep,’ he said—and then whisked off to another time zone for the whole weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush, face cream, and set off to inspect this cave. The problems started at the door. Dmitri had warned the lock could be temperamental, but Eva hadn’t expected it to be this bad. She attacked that door for forty minutes: shoving, pulling, sliding the key in all possible ways, politely cajoling it, but it refused to open to its new resident. Eva tried psychological pressure, like her classmates taught behind the garages back in school. The noise brought out a neighbour. ‘Why are you breaking into someone else’s flat?’ asked a worried woman’s voice. ‘I’m not breaking in, I’ve got keys!’ Eva snapped, wiping sweat from her brow. ‘And who are you, exactly? I’ve never seen you before,’ the neighbour continued nosily. ‘I’m his girlfriend!’ Eva said boldly, hands on hips. But she saw only a crack where the negotiation was happening. ‘You?’ the woman was genuinely surprised. ‘Yes, me. Problem?’ ‘No, none at all. It’s just, he’s never brought anyone here before,’ (at which Eva loved Dmitri even more), ‘and now suddenly, someone like…’ ‘Someone like who?’ Eva asked, baffled. ‘You know, it’s not my business. Sorry,’ the neighbour retreated, closing her door. Knowing it was now or never, Eva forced the key with all her resolve, nearly twisting the entire doorframe around. The door opened. Dmitri’s inner world appeared before her, and Eva felt her soul turn frosty. She understood that a solitary young man could be a bit ascetic, but this place was positively monastic. ‘Poor thing, your heart has long forgotten, or maybe never knew, what comfort means,’ Eva whispered, surveying the modest home she’d now be spending so much time in. Still, she was happy. The neighbour was right: a woman’s touch had clearly never graced these walls, floors, kitchen, or those grey windows. Eva was the first. Unable to resist, she hurried off to the nearest shop for cheerful curtains and a bath mat—and ended up with oven mitts and kitchen towels too. Once there, her excitement took over: scented candles, handmade soaps, handy organisers for cosmetics joined the pile. ‘Adding a few touches to someone else’s flat isn’t overstepping,’ Eva soothed herself, as she attached a second trolley to the first. The lock gave her no more trouble—in fact, it quit working altogether, now about as secure as a hockey goalie who forgot his mask. Realising what she’d done, Eva spent the night extracting the old lock with whatever kitchen knives she could find, and the next morning dashed off for a new one (and knives, and forks, spoons, a tablecloth, cutting boards, coasters, and, obviously, curtains). On Sunday Dmitri called, saying he’d be delayed a couple more days. ‘I’d be glad if you brought some warmth and comfort to my flat,’ he laughed, when Eva confessed she’d made a few changes. By now, Eva was importing coziness by the truckload, distributing it according to technical plans and paperwork—as though she’d been storing up for years as a lonely woman, and now, unleashed, couldn’t stop. By the time Dmitri returned, his old flat housed only a lone spider near the vent. Eva almost evicted it too, but seeing its eight astonished eyes, decided it was best left as a symbol of respecting someone else’s property. Dmitri’s home now looked like he’d been happily married for eight years, got divorced, and was now happy out of sheer defiance. Eva didn’t just take over the flat—she let the whole building know she was now the lady of the house, and any questions should be addressed to her. There might not be a ring yet, but that was just a technicality. The neighbours watched with suspicion at first, then shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, it’s your business.’ * On Dmitri’s return day, Eva cooked a proper home dinner, poured herself into a glamorous—almost scandalous—outfit, scattered fragrances round the flat, dimmed the new lighting, and waited. Dmitri was late. When Eva began to notice her dress biting uncomfortably into the spot she’d been working on in the gym for months, she heard a key in the lock. ‘It’s a new lock, just push, it’s not locked!’ Eva called out, flustered but inviting. She wasn’t afraid of judgement—she’d done such a good job on the flat, she’d be forgiven anything. Just as the door opened, Eva received a sudden text from Dmitri: ‘Where are you? I’m home. The flat looks just the same. My mates warned me you’d drown it in cosmetics!’ Eva only saw the message later. Meanwhile, five complete strangers entered: two young men, two kids, and a very old gentleman, who instantly straightened up and patted his hair upon seeing Eva. ‘Wow, Dad, they’re rolling out the red carpet! And why’d you need the health spa, when there’s ‘all-inclusive’ at home?’ said one young man, only to get an elbow from his wife for staring. Eva stood frozen at the doorway, two brimming glasses in hand. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t overcome her shock. A triumphant spider tittered in the corner. ‘Excuse me, and who are you?’ Eva squeaked. ‘I’m the master of this den. And you, I suppose, are from the clinic, here to do the bandages? I said I’d manage myself,’ replied the granddad, eyeing Eva’s nurse outfit. ‘Uh, yes, Adam Mathews, your place is such a haven now!’ the young man’s wife peered hopefully behind Eva. ‘So much better; before it was like a crypt. And you, dear, what’s your name? Isn’t our Adam Mathews a little too old for you? Although, he does have his own place…’ ‘E-e-va…’ ‘Well, well! You’ve picked a winner, Adam Mathews, no doubt about that!’ Judging by his twinkling eyes, granddad felt the same. ‘Where’s Dmitri?’ Eva whispered, nervously downing both glasses. ‘That’s me!’ chirped the eight-year-old lad. ‘Not yet, son—it’s too soon for you to be a Dmitri,’ his mum said, shooing the kids and husband back toward the car. ‘I…I’m sorry, I must have the wrong flat,’ Eva stammered, remembering her misadventures with the lock. ‘This is Lilac Street, eighteen, flat twenty-six?’ ‘No, this is Beech Street, eighteen,’ the old man replied, ready to unwrap his surprise visitor. ‘Oh…’ Eva sighed dramatically. ‘I must’ve mixed it up. Well, make yourselves at home. I just need to make a call.’ She grabbed her phone and dashed to the bathroom, barricading herself and wrapping up in a towel to finally read Dmitri’s message. ‘Dmitri, I’ll be there soon, just got held up in the shop,’ she replied. ‘Great, I’m waiting. If you don’t mind, grab a bottle of red,’ Dmitri left in a voice message. Eva would certainly bring the red—now boiling inside her. Clutching her bath mat and removing the curtain, she waited till the strangers entered the kitchen, then made her escape. Quickly packing up, she ran from the flat. * ‘I’ll explain later,’ Eva mumbled about her appearance as Dmitri opened the door. Moving like she was sleepwalking, she passed him without a glance, headed straight to the bathroom, rehung the curtain and laid out the mat—then collapsed on the sofa and slept till morning, letting all the stress and all the ‘red’ fade away. Upon waking, Eva saw an unfamiliar young man waiting for an explanation. ‘Can I just ask… what’s this address?’ ‘Boot Avenue, eighteen.’

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 1

Blimey, Dad, what a welcome committee youve got. And what was the point of that spa holiday, when home is such an all inclusive?

When Oliver handed her the keys to his flat, Daisy felt an electric jolt: Bastille, stormed. No actor at the Oscars ever yearned half so much as Daisy had for her Oliver, and finally, shed got her own nest.

Thirty-five and worn from waiting, Daisy found herself tossing sympathetic glances at stray cats and fingering the Everything for Crafting shop windows.

And in he camea career-driven bachelor whod spent his youth on kale, rowing machines, mindfulness podcasts, and all those tedious adventures in self-discovery, plus child-free to boot.

It was a gift Daisyd wished for since she was twenty, and it seemed, somewhere high up in the clouds, the gods finally took her seriously.

One last work trip this year, and then Im yours, Oliver smiled, dropping the hallowed keys in her hand, Just dont let my den scare you. Ill only come home to sleep, and off he went, vanishing into a weekend somewhere six hours ahead.

With only a toothbrush and a night cream, Daisy set off to inspect the lair. Trouble started at the threshold; Oliver had mentioned the lock could be tricky, but Daisy hadnt imagined itd be possessed.

She stormed the doorpushing, pulling, jostling the key all the way in, gently trying a sly half-turnbut the door refused her as though it sensed fresh occupation.

Daisy began her psychological assault, recalling playground tricks from schooldays behind the bike sheds. The commotion summoned a neighbouring door to open, a curious Mrs. Smith peeking through a crack.

Why are you breaking into someone else’s flat? came the suspicious voice.

Im not breaking in, Ive got the keys, Daisy snapped, mopping her brow.

Who are you, then? I’ve never seen you before, the neighbour pried.

Im his girlfriend! Daisy retorted, planting hands on hipsonly to find herself still speaking to the gap.

You? the woman gasped.

Yes! Any issue with that?

Oh, no. Just hes never brought anyone over before. (Daisys heart swelled for this gentle loner.) And now suddenlywell

What, suddenly what?

You know what, its none of my business. Sorry, Mrs. Smith mumbled, closing the door.

Determined not to be bested, Daisy stabbed the key with all her yearning, nearly twisting the whole door frame off. Finally, it surrendered.

Olivers entire inner landscape unfolded before her, and Daisy gave a little gaspthe room was cloaked in an icy, monkish quiet. A bachelors asceticism she could expect, but this was a hermits cell.

Poor soul, your hearts never known comfort, has it? she whispered as she wandered his sparse dwelling, her home for the foreseeable.

Yet there was reliefthe neighbour hadnt lied: these walls, floors, kitchen, and cloudy windows had never felt the sweep of a womans hand. She was the first.

Burning with impatience, Daisy donned her shoes and dashed to the nearest shop for a bright shower curtain and a soft bath mat, plus oven mitts and tea towels.

Once in the shop, Daisy lost the plot. To the curtain and mat, she added diffusers, handmade soaps, cosmetic caddiesher baskets piled up like a festival in a strangers flat.

To add these bits is hardly presumptuous, Daisy told herself, hitching a second trolley to the first.

The lock ceased resistance. In fact, with Daisys efforts, it gave up entirelylike a hapless goalie whod forgotten his mask on finals day.

Gripped with guilt, Daisy spent half the night with kitchen knives, picking away at the old lock, and rushed at dawn to get a new one. The knives, of course, needed replacing tooand forks, and spoons, and a tablecloth, and chopping boards Why not toss in new coasters, and the curtains would clearly be next.

Sunday afternoon brought a call. Oliver, delayed, would be away a couple more days.

Im grateful if you bring a little warmth to my flat, he chuckled when Daisy confessed her interior design spree.

By then, Daisy had funnelled enough cosiness in by the lorry-load, mapped according to mood boards and Pinterest plans. Years of unspent nesting energy burst forthshe couldnt help herself.

By the time Oliver came back, only a startled spider remained in the corner above the vent; Daisy nearly ousted it, but seeing its eight amazed eyes bulge at the sudden colour explosion, she let it be as a symbol: some treasures untouched.

Olivers flat now looked like hed happily survived eight years of marriage, then despaired, then somehow become joyous in defiance.

And Daisy tackled more than just her own quartersnow the whole building knew there was a new boss, and questions found their way to her. Ring on her finger or not, that was a mere technicality.

Neighbours gawked, then shrugged: As you say, lovenone of our business.

***
When Olivers return arrived, Daisy cooked a proper home meal, squeezed her supple thighs into a festive, faintly risqué dress, scattered diffusers in the corners, dimmed the fresh lamps, and waited.

He was tardy. When Daisy began to feel pinched from the wrapping meant for showing off all those squats in the gym, the lock clicked.

The locks new, just pushits open! Daisy called, airily, shamelessly. She wasnt worried. Shed done wonders with the place: all would be forgiven.

As the door swung wide, Daisy received an unexpected text from Oliver: Where are you? Im home. Flat looks just like it always did. Friends warned youd fill it with cosmetics.

Daisy only saw that message later because, at that exact moment, five total strangers swept in: two lads, two small schoolkids, and a doddering elderly gent who straightened up and patted his grey tufts when he clocked Daisy.

Crikey, Dad, just look at this welcome! the eldest said, getting a wallop from his missus for staring.

Daisy, rooted, clutching two glasses of wine, was paralysed. She wanted to scream but couldnt.

Somewhere, in the corner, the spider chortled.

Excuse me, who are you? Daisy squeaked.

Owner of this local nest. You from the surgery? Here to change my bandage? Thought I said I could manage, answered the old man, eyeing Daisys pseudo-nurse outfit.

Erm, yes, Mr. Adams, its lovely in here… peered the young wife, grinning behind Daisy. A far cry from the crypt it was. And you, miss, whats your name? Isnt our Mr. Adams a bit mature for you? Though, a man with his own flat…

D-d-daisy

Well! You pick ’em well, Mr. Adams. Cant fault your taste!

The old mans eyes sparkled, clearly pleased.

And wheres Oliver? Daisy whispered, draining both glasses in one.

Im Oliver! piped up the eight-year-old boy.

Wait, youre a bit young for Oliver, his mum laughed, ushering the kids and her husband back out.

Im so sorry, I think Ive got the wrong flat, Daisy finally managed, thinking back to her wrestling match with the lock. Is this Lavender Avenue, number eighteen, flat twenty-six?

No, this is Beechwood Avenue, eighteen, the old man said, positively gleaming at the prospect of this surprise.

Ah, Daisy winced, Ive mixed up the addresses. Carry on, settle in, Ill justummake a phone call.

She darted into the bathroom, barricaded herself with a towel, and finally read Olivers text.

Oliver, Im on my way, got held up at the shop, she replied quickly.

All good, looking forwardbring a bottle of red, will you? Oliver voice-messaged.

Shed bring the red, but only within herself. Tucking the bath mat and snatched curtain under her arm, Daisy waited until the strangers moved into the kitchen, then dashed out.

Stuffing her things in a carrier, she bolted, half-floating down the corridor.

***
Ill explain, but later, was all Daisy said when Oliver opened the door.

Moving as if underwater, she passed him by, went straight to the bathroom, re-hung the curtain, unfurled the mat, then curled up on the couch and slept straight through until morning, when the stress and wine had finally left her.

Awaking, she found Oliver waiting, expecting clarification.

Sorry, butwhats the address, again?

Butterfield Avenue, eighteenOliver grinned and sat beside her, his hand warm atop hers. Youre home now, Daisy. No maps needed.

She laugheda surprised, bright sound that cut through the last traces of humiliation. He poured two glasses, red and rich, and together they made a toast, not to getting it right, but to getting there in the end.

As evening drifted in, Daisy leaned her head on Olivers shoulder and watched the new bath mat ripple beneath their feet, the curtain casting cozy shadows on their joined world. Shed gotten lost, stumbled, turned the wrong key in the wrong lock, but somehow, shed found the welcome shed waited for all those years.

Outside, a breeze rattled the letterbox, bearing in a faint giggle and the memory of eight bright eyes blinking above a vent. Daisy smiled, raised her glass: to spiders, strangers, and the serendipity of falling into just the right lifeby way of the entirely wrong flat.

“I couldn’t leave him behind, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “Do you understand? I just couldn’t Nikita was fourteen, and the whole world seemed against him—or rather, no one cared to understand him. “There’s that troublemaker again!” muttered Auntie Clare from the third flat, hurrying to cross the other side of the courtyard. “Raised by a single mum. There’s your result!” Nikita walked by with his hands shoved into the pockets of his battered jeans, pretending not to hear—though he heard everything. His mum was working late again. On the kitchen table, a note: “Meatballs in the fridge, heat them up.” And silence. Always, endless silence. Now, he was trudging home from school, where teachers had yet again sat him down for “a talk” about his behaviour. As though he didn’t realise he’d become everyone’s problem. He understood. But what did it matter? “Hey, lad!” called Uncle Victor, the ground-floor neighbour. “You seen a lame dog about? Ought to chase it off.” Nikita stopped. Squinted. By the rubbish bins, a dog lay—full-grown, ginger with white patches. Lying still, but its eyes followed people. Clever eyes. And sad. “Someone get rid of it!” Aunt Clare chimed in. “Probably diseased!” Nikita walked closer. The dog didn’t move, only wagged its tail feebly. On its back leg, a ragged wound, dried blood. “What are you staring at?” snapped Uncle Victor. “Grab a stick, get rid of it!” Something snapped inside Nikita. “Don’t you dare touch him!” Nikita burst out, shielding the dog. “He’s done nothing wrong!” “Well, there’s a first,” said Uncle Victor, amazed. “A little defender.” “And I’ll keep defending!” Nikita crouched beside the dog, gently reached out. The dog sniffed his fingers and gave his palm a soft, grateful lick. A warmth flooded Nikita’s chest. For the first time in ages, someone greeted him with kindness. “Come on,” he whispered to the dog. “Come home with me.” Back at home, Nikita made a bed for the dog with his old jackets in the corner of his room. Mum wouldn’t be home till evening—no one to shout or chase “the pest” out. The wound looked nasty. Nikita found articles online about first aid for animals, wincing at medical lingo but determined to learn. “Needs rinsing with antiseptic,” he muttered, searching the medicine cupboard. “Then dab around with iodine—carefully, so it won’t hurt.” The dog rested quietly, trustingly giving his bad leg. Looked up at Nikita in a way no one had for a long time. “So, what’s your name? You’re ginger… Ginger it is—how’s that sound?” The dog barked softly—as if agreeing. Come evening, Mum arrived. Nikita braced for an argument, but his mum silently checked Ginger, felt the bandaged leg. “You did the dressing yourself?” she asked quietly. “Yeah. Found out how online.” “What will you feed him?” “I’ll find something.” She looked at her son a long time. Then at the dog, who gratefully licked her hand. “Tomorrow, we’ll take him to the vet,” she decided. “See what’s up with his leg. Have you settled on a name?” “Ginger,” Nikita answered, beaming. For the first time in months, there was no wall between them. In the morning, Nikita got up earlier than usual. Ginger tried to stand, whining softly. “Stay put,” Nikita soothed. “I’ll get you water, fetch some food.” No dog food at home. He gave up his last meatball, soaked bread in milk. Ginger gobbled it up, but gingerly, licking every crumb. At school, Nikita didn’t talk back to teachers for once. Thought only of Ginger—was his leg hurting, was he lonely? “You’re different today,” his form teacher remarked, puzzled. Nikita just shrugged. He didn’t want to explain—kids would laugh. After school, he dashed home, ignoring neighbours’ stares. Ginger greeted him with happy yelps, able to stand on three legs already. “Right, buddy, want to go outside?” Nikita made a lead out of rope. “Just take it easy, mind your leg.” In the courtyard, something unexpected happened. Aunt Clare saw them and nearly choked on her sunflower seeds. “He’s brought it home! Nikita! Are you mad?” “So what?” said Nikita calmly. “I’m treating him. He’ll get better soon.” “Treating him?” the neighbour stepped closer. “And where do you get the money for medicine? Steal it from your mum?” Nikita clenched his fists, but held back. Ginger pressed close to his leg, sensing his nerves. “Don’t steal. Spent my own—they’re breakfast savings,” he said quietly. Uncle Victor shook his head. “Son, do you get what you’ve taken on? That’s a living soul, not a toy. Needs feeding, healing, walking.” Now, every day began with a stroll. Ginger recovered quickly, soon running about, though still limping a bit. Nikita taught him commands—patiently, for hours. “Sit! Good boy! Give me your paw! Like that!” Neighbours watched from a distance. Some shook their heads, others smiled. But Nikita only noticed Ginger’s loyal eyes. He changed. Slowly, over time. Stopped being rude, started tidying at home, even his grades improved. He had a purpose now. And it was just the beginning. Three weeks later, Nikita’s greatest fear came to pass. He was walking Ginger after dark, when a gang of strays burst out from behind the garages. Five or six dogs—angry, hungry, eyes burning in the night. The leader, a huge black mongrel, bared its teeth and charged. Ginger instinctively shrank behind Nikita. His leg still hurt; he couldn’t run. The pack sensed weakness. “Back off!” Nikita shouted, swinging the leash. “Go away!” But the pack closed in. Circled. The black leader snarled, about to pounce. “Nikita!” came a woman’s scream from above. “Run! Leave the dog and run!” It was Aunt Clare, leaning from her window. Other neighbours crowded behind her. “Lad, don’t be a hero!” bellowed Uncle Victor. “That dog’s lame—he’ll never outrun them!” Nikita glanced at Ginger. Trembling, the dog stayed put—pressed to his side, ready to share his fate. The black dog leapt first. Nikita shielded himself, but the bite landed on his shoulder, teeth sinking through his coat. And Ginger—despite his pain, despite his fear—lunged to protect his boy. Sank his teeth into the pack leader’s leg, locked on with all his might. A brawl broke out. Nikita fought off the dogs, kicking, flailing, desperately trying to shield Ginger. Receiving bites, scratches, but refusing to retreat. “Heavens, what’s happening!” wailed Aunt Clare. “Victor, do something!” Uncle Victor ran down with a stick, a metal pipe—whatever came to hand. “Hang on, lad!” he shouted. “I’m coming!” Nikita was nearly overwhelmed when he heard Mum’s voice: “Get off them!” She burst out of the block with a bucket of water, dousing the gang. The strays scattered, spitting and snarling. “Victor, help!” she called. Uncle Victor rushed over with his stick; more neighbours came running. The street dogs, realising they were outmatched, fled. Nikita lay on the tarmac, clutching Ginger. Both bleeding, both shaking—but alive. Safe. “Son,” Mum knelt beside him, examining his scratches. “You scared me half to death.” “I couldn’t leave him, Mum,” Nikita whispered. “You see? I just couldn’t.” “I do see,” she replied softly. Aunt Clare came down to the courtyard. Stared at Nikita, as if seeing him for the first time. “Boy,” she stammered. “You could’ve di—because of a dog.” “It’s not ‘because of a dog’,” Uncle Victor cut in unexpectedly. “It’s for a friend. Understand the difference, Clare?” The neighbour nodded silently, tears running down her cheeks. “Let’s get home,” Mum said. “We need to tend to those wounds. Ginger too.” Nikita struggled to his feet, carried Ginger in his arms. Ginger whimpered, but his tail twitched—he was happy, knowing his master was near. “Wait,” said Uncle Victor. “Going to the vet tomorrow?” “We are.” “I’ll drive you. And pay for the treatment—the dog’s a little hero.” Nikita looked at his neighbour, surprised. “Thank you, Uncle Victor. But I’ll manage.” “Don’t argue. You can pay me back when you earn it. For now…” the man clapped Nikita on the shoulder. “For now, we’re proud of you. Aren’t we?” The neighbours nodded in silence. A month passed. On a typical October evening, Nikita was heading home from the veterinary clinic, where he now volunteered on weekends. Ginger trotted alongside—his leg healed, almost no limp. “Nikita!” called Aunt Clare. “Wait a sec!” He paused, bracing for another lecture. But she handed him a bag of dog food. “This is for Ginger,” she said shyly. “Good stuff—expensive. You take such care of him.” “Thank you, Auntie Clare,” Nikita replied sincerely. “But we have dog food. I’m working at the clinic now—Dr. Anna pays me.” “Take it anyway. You’ll be glad you did.” At home, Mum was making dinner. When she saw Nikita, she smiled. “How’s it going at the clinic? Is Dr. Anna pleased with your work?” “Says I’ve got the right touch. Patience too.” Nikita gave Ginger an affectionate pat. “Maybe I’ll be a vet—seriously considering it.” “And how’s your schoolwork?” “Fine. Even Mr. Peterson praised me in Physics. Said I’m more focused.” Mum nodded. In the past month, her son had become unrecognisable. No longer rude, helping at home, greeting neighbours. Most importantly—a purpose. A dream. “You know,” she said, “Victor’s coming round tomorrow. Wants to offer you another little job. His mate runs a dog kennel—needs a helper.” Nikita grinned: “Really? Can I bring Ginger too?” “Think so. He’s almost a working dog now.” That evening, Nikita sat outside with Ginger, practising a new command—“Guard.” Ginger tried his best, watching Nikita with loyal eyes. Uncle Victor stopped by, sat down next to them. “So, off to the kennel tomorrow?” “Yes—with Ginger.” “Then get an early night. It’ll be a busy day.” After Victor left, Nikita stayed in the courtyard a little longer. Ginger rested his head on his master’s lap, sighing contentedly. They’d found each other. And they’d never be alone again.

“I Don’t Want to Be a Mum! I Want to Leave Home!” – My Daughter Told Me My daughter became pregnant at 15, keeping it secret for months. My husband and I only discovered the truth when she was five months along. There was never any question of an abortion. We never did find out who the father was. My daughter said they’d only dated for three months, then broke up. She wasn’t even sure how old he was. “Maybe 17, maybe 18, or even 19!” she would say. Naturally, my husband and I were shocked at the news of her pregnancy. We knew it would be extremely tough on all of us. Even so, our daughter insisted she wanted the baby and wanted to be a mum. I realised she didn’t understand what being a mother really meant. Four months later, she gave birth to a wonderful, healthy baby boy. But the labour was difficult, and she needed four months to recover. There’s no way she could have coped without my help, so I left my job to care for her and my grandson. Once her strength returned, she didn’t want anything to do with her son. She slept at night and refused to look after him during the day. I did what I could. I pleaded, explained, begged, even shouted at her for not helping. That’s when she said, “You love him. Why not adopt him? I’ll just be his sister. I don’t want to be a mum, I want to go out with my friends, go clubbing! I want to have fun!” I thought maybe she had postnatal depression, but it turned out she simply didn’t love her baby. Eventually, my husband and I arranged to get legal custody of our grandson. Our daughter became utterly unpredictable, ignoring us completely. She’d leave the house at night and come home in the early morning, never caring for her son. That’s how we lived for a few years. We thought things would never change. Our grandson grew up, getting smarter all the time. In two years he changed a lot: walking, talking, and always smiling. He was always thrilled when my daughter came home – running to her, hugging her, chatting away. And, quite suddenly, her heart melted: she became a wonderful mum. Now she spends all her free time with her son. Always hugging, always kissing him. She often says, “I’m so happy to have my son! He’s the most precious thing in my life! I’ll never give him up!” My husband and I are incredibly happy that peace has finally returned to our family.

Well, Dad, this is a welcome! Why ever did you need that health resort when you’ve got “all inclusive” at home? When Dmitry handed her the keys to his flat, Eva realised: her Bastille was conquered. Not even DiCaprio waited for his Oscar as eagerly as Eva waited for her Dmitry—with her own little nest, no less. Despondent and thirty-five, she found herself increasingly casting sympathetic glances at stray cats and browsing “Craft Supplies” shop windows. Then came Dmitry: single, having spent his youth on his career, kale salads, the gym, and other nonsense like “finding himself,” and childless to boot. Eva had been wishing for this moment since she was twenty—her very own flat key. Perhaps, high above, someone finally realised she wasn’t joking. “I’ve got my last work trip of the year, and then I’m all yours,” Dmitry said, handing over those precious keys. “Just don’t be shocked by my bachelor den. I only come home for sleep!” He jetted off to another time zone for the weekend. Eva grabbed her toothbrush and face cream and set off to investigate the bachelor pad. Trouble started at the door—Dmitry had warned her the lock’s temperamental, but she hadn’t expected this. She spent forty minutes storming the door: pushing, pulling, inserting the key fully, politely trying a gentle twist, but it stubbornly refused her entry. Eva resorted to psychological pressure, as taught behind school sheds years ago. A neighbour’s door opened at the commotion. “Why are you forcing your way into someone else’s flat?” asked a concerned lady. “I’m not forcing—I’ve got a key!” growled a sweaty Eva. “And who are you, exactly? Never seen you before…” “I’m his girlfriend!” Eva declared, hands on hips, though her claim was heard only through a crack in the neighbour’s door. “You?” said the woman, genuinely surprised. “Yes, me. Is that a problem?” “Oh no, just—he’s never brought anyone home before (Eva loved Dmitry even more at that moment)—and suddenly, someone like…” “Someone like what?” Eva demanded. “Well, it’s none of my business. Sorry,” and the neighbour closed the door. Determined to win, Eva jammed the key in with a vengeance fit to twist off the entire doorframe. The door finally gave way. All Dmitry’s inner world was suddenly exposed—and Eva’s soul frosted over. Of course, young single men are known for austerity, but this was a monk’s cell. “Poor thing, your heart’s long forgotten—or never known—comfort,” Eva murmured, surveying the spartan quarters she’d now frequent. But, to her delight, the neighbour hadn’t lied: no female touch had ever graced these walls, floors, kitchen, or uncoloured windows. Eva was the first. Unable to resist, Eva dashed out to the nearest shop for a pretty shower curtain, a bath mat, and potholders and towels. At the shop, she was swept away: along with the mat and curtain came air fresheners, handmade soaps, and handy cosmetics organisers. “Adding little touches to someone else’s flat isn’t too cheeky,” Eva reassured herself, adding a second trolley to her haul. The lock gave up resisting. In fact, it ceased functioning altogether—like a hockey goalie forgets his mask on game day. Realising she’d made a mess, Eva spent the night wresting out the old lock with kitchen knives, and bought a new one the next morning. The knives had to go, too—along with new forks, spoons, a tablecloth, cutting boards, trivets… soon enough, curtains were on the list. On Sunday, Dmitry rang to say his trip was running long. “I’ll be thrilled if you bring some warmth and comfort to my place,” he smiled down the line, when Eva confessed a few liberties taken with his decor. By now, Eva had truckloads of cosiness arriving, distributed with plans and documentation. Years of pent-up longing—and with her hands untied, she just couldn’t stop. By Dmitry’s return, only the spider beside the air vent remained from the old flat. Eva considered evicting it—then, seeing its eight startled eyes, decided to leave it as a symbol of respecting another’s property. Dmitry’s home now looked as if he’d been happily married for eight years, grown disillusioned, then happy again despite it all. Eva hadn’t just transformed the flat—she’d made sure the whole building knew who the new mistress was, and directed all queries her way. No ring yet, but that was strictly technical. Initially, neighbours eyed her warily, but soon shrugged: “As you say, it’s your business.” On Dmitry’s return day, Eva prepared a proper homemade meal, decked herself out in her prettiest—perhaps even a bit much—outfit, scattered incense, dimmed the new lights, and waited. He was delayed. As the outfit started pinching uncomfortably, the key turned in the new lock. “It’s brand new, just give it a push—it’s not locked!” Eva called, a little flustered but sultry. She feared no judgement. She’d worked too hard on the flat. She’d be forgiven. Just then, Eva received a surprise text from Dmitry: “Where are you? I’m home. Place looks exactly the same. My mates warned me you’d drown everything in face cream.” Eva only read it later, for at that moment, five complete strangers entered: two young men, two schoolkids, and one very elderly grandad who, spotting Eva, stood tall and smoothed his sparse grey hair. “Well, Dad, you’re getting quite the reception. Really, why bother with a spa when home’s all-inclusive?” joked one man, earning an immediate scold from his wife for ogling. Eva stood in the doorway with two full glasses, frozen in shock. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t move. The spider giggled happily in the corner. “Excuse me, but who are you?” Eva squeaked. “I own this little nest. And you must be from the surgery, come to change my dressing? But I said I’d manage,” replied Grandad, eyeing Eva’s nurse get-up. “Ah yes, Adam Matveevich, it’s awfully cosy and homely in here,” piped up the younger man’s wife. “Quite a change—used to feel like a tomb. And you, miss, what’s your name? Isn’t Adam Matveevich a bit old for you? Granted, he’s got his own place…” “E-E-Eva…” “Well! Impressive, Adam Matveevich, your people skills! Can’t deny it!” Judging by his twinkling eyes, Grandad found this coincidence most agreeable. “Where’s Dmitry?” whispered Eva, nervously downing both glasses. “I’m Dmitry!” chirped an eight-year-old boy. “Not yet, sweetheart, wait your turn,” mom hushed, shepherding both kids and her husband out to their car. “E-excuse me, I seem to be in the wrong flat,” Eva began, gathering her wits and recalling her lock adventure. “This is Lilac Street, eighteen, flat twenty-six?” “Nope—this is Beech Road, eighteen,” Grandad rubbed his hands, ready to unpack his luck. “Right,” Eva sighed dramatically. “My mistake. Please settle in, I’ll just step out to make a call.” She grabbed her phone and retreated to the bathroom, barricading herself with a towel. That’s when she read Dmitry’s text. “Dmitry, I’ll be right over—just held up at the shop,” she replied hastily. “Alright, I’m waiting. If you can, pick up a bottle of red,” Dmitry requested by voice message. Eva still planned on bringing red—but it would be in her cheeks. Tucking her mat under one arm and snatching down the curtain, she waited for the strangers to move into the kitchen before darting from the bath. She scooped her things into a bag and dashed out. *** “I’ll explain later,” Eva muttered, as Dmitry opened his door. Moving in a fog, she passed straight by him and went first to the bathroom to install her curtain and mat, then collapsed on the sofa and slept until the stress and red flushed away. Upon waking, Eva found a puzzled Dmitry before her, awaiting answers. “Sorry, what’s this address again…?” “Butler Avenue, eighteen.”