You’re a Traitor — The Wedding Is Off

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 1

You traitorthere will be no wedding!

My darling, why are you showing me this nonsense? Henry barely glanced at the photograph. I love only you, and I dont need anyone else. This is obviously a fake.

Really? And who do you think would go to such lengths? Emily was irked by Henrys indifference. He seemed to defend himself only half-heartedly.

The beauty salon Emilys grandmother left her in her will never much captured Emilys interest.

She much preferred teaching art classes to children at the local school. Nevertheless, she hadnt refused the inheritance.

The salon brought in a nice income, managed expertly by a trustworthy woman.

This meant Emily could pursue her passion for teaching and never wanted for anythingexcept, perhaps, a family.

After her grandmother died, 27-year-old Emily found herself all alone, until a year later, when she met Henry at an art exhibition.

The charming man with a shy smile won her over with his courtesy, kindness, and consideration.

After two months, Henry invited her to his home to meet his stepfather, Charles Green.

My real father died when I was four, her boyfriend confided. My mother remarried ten years later.

I never did call Charles Dad, but weve always gotten on.

When Mum died two years ago, I stayed on living with him.

Emily took to Charles straight away. Well-groomed, alert, and articulatehe didnt seem remotely his fifty-six years.

It seemed he liked Emily, too.

Our Henrys certainly landed on his feet, Charles said gallantly, kissing Emilys hand.

Oh, why do you say that, Uncle Charles? Henry pretended to be offended.

Because a proper man wouldnt work as a hobby-supplies manager! his stepfather joked. No matterits the fiancée whos the prize!

Emily blushed at first, but by the end of the evening, she was laughing at all his jokes, even making Henry a little jealous.

Six months later, Henry proposed. Emily was absolutely besotted, lost in dreams of their future, so it took her a while to register what photos had just arrived on her phone.

When she studied them properly, she was stunned.

The pictures showed her Henry, tenderly hugging and kissing another woman, that same shy smile on his lips.

According to the timestamp, theyd been taken just a couple of weeks ago.

My darling, why are you showing me this rubbish? Henry glanced briefly at the pictures. I only love you, this is a clear fake.

Really? And who might want to do that? Emily asked, stung by how dismissively Henry waved it all away; even his attempts to explain were half-hearted.

No idea, he replied breezily. It takes all sorts, doesnt it?

That was when Emily snapped. Anyone else might have protested their innocence, sworn their love, threatened to find out whod hurt their fiancée But not Henry. Not only had he betrayed her; he didnt seem the least bit sorry.

Youre a traitor! There will be no wedding! Emily stormed out of the flat in tears, leaving a shocked Henry behind.

She spent three days crying at home, then a week holed up, off work with a sick note. She thought over everythingHenry never even tried to contact herand eventually, she pulled herself together.

What if the photos really were doctored? What if someone wanted to tear them apart? Anyone could fake images nowadays with a bit of know-how and she, Emily, had just given up so easily.

To her surprise, the woman in the photo turned out to be real. Emily found her easily enough on social mediathree accounts, in fact. Her rivals name was Sophie, and she agreed to meet right away.

Oh, those photos are ancient, Sophie laughed, when Emily explained and showed her the pictures. That was more than a year ago.

Butbut look at the date! Emily protested, bewildered.

Honestly! Anyone can fake a date stamp if they care enough, Sophie replied, giving Emily a sympathetic look.

So, was it you who did this?

Oh, dont be ridiculous! What would I gain? Henry and I split ages agoonly dated a couple of months, never really clicked. Im actually getting married soon.

Are you? Oddyour page doesnt show a fiancé Emily eyed her suspiciously.

Happiness loves silence, Sophie shrugged with a smile. Wouldnt want to jinx it. But Ill post the wedding pictures, dont you worry.

So that meant Henry had truly been set up, and Emily had believed the lie and punished him for it. It was time to fix everything.

He didnt answer her calls or texts. So two days later, Emily decided to visit Henrys house in person.

She arrived in the evening to make sure hed be home and there, to her shock, saw him step out of the car belonging to her old school friend, Victoria.

The girls had grown up on the same street and used to be friends, but Emily always struggled with Victoria, who was bold, persistent, and strikingly glamorous.

By now, they only nodded in passing, a distant sort of communication that resumed after Emilys grandmothers funeral.

Victoria had pressed her to sell the salon, said the site was ideal for her new business venturea massage suite. Victoria already owned two, but this location was prime.

Emily knew full well what went on in those places! And in any case, she wasnt selling.

Shed refused Victorias generous offers more than once. And now, was this her revengestealing Emilys fiancé?

While Emilys mind raced, the pair exchanged warm goodbyes, and Victoria drove off.

See? came a soft voice by her ear, making Emily jump.

There you are, Miss Bennett, Charles said quietly.

Hello, Mr Green, she mumbled.

Hello! Henry never seems to be lonely, does he? Youd be better off marrying me, joked her ex-soon-to-be-father-in-law, though his eyes were quite serious.

II cant. Im sorry, I have to go, Emily blurted, mortified, then raced away from him.

It wasnt hard to find Victoria. As Emily walked back to her street, Victoria was just parking her car.

Sodecided to go after my fiancé, have you? Emily said, locking eyes with her rival. But you slipped up with those photos! I worked everything out.

What photos? Victoria looked completely bewildered. What on earth are you talking about?

You mean you didnt send me those pictures of Henry with that other woman? Trying to stir up drama to get him for yourself, werent you?

Emily, are you all right? I never sent you anything! Henry started paying attention to me only a week ago. I thought you two had split up

Emily stared at Victorias face, and saw nothing but honesty. She realised she needed to go home and think.

I thought you were finally going to sell me the salon! Victoria called after her, but Emily didnt answer.

Back in her flat, Emily caught her breath and called Henry again. To her surprise, he picked up.

All right, come round if you want, he said without enthusiasm. Feeling a bit under the weather, thats all.

There was no need to ask her twice.

Henry, I made a mistake! Please forgive me. I love you so muchI just got so jealous. Everything looked so real Im sorry.

Its fine, he replied with a shrug. These things happen.

Youre wonderful! Emily hugged him, I love you so much!

But Henry gently pushed her away.

Lets just be friends.

What? We were supposed to get married

Emily, he grimaced, Im marrying Victoria.

What? You swore you loved me We were meant to

No need for drama. Frankly, its your overreactions that made me change my mind. I dont want this sort of emotional whirlwind.

Besides, Victorias business is better, brings in more money. I have to think about my future.

Emily was struck speechless. She literally couldnt utter a word, nor did she know what to say.

Henry had simply used her, swapping her out for someone else without another thought.

Emily fled Henrys flat, rushed down the stairs, and on the street her legs gave way, so she collapsed onto a bench.

A few minutes later, Charles sat down beside her.

My poor girl, he said softly, patting her shoulder. Dont worry, better you find out now

I just cant understandwho started all this? Emily sobbed suddenly.

I did, came Charles quiet admission.

You? Why? She stopped crying in shock.

I fell for you the day you first visited us. Decided there and then Id marry you, but you only had eyes for Henry.

I tried to ruin you in his eyes, but then I overheard him telling a mate hed landed a wealthy bride.

Thats when I realised hed never let you go anyway. I changed tack Never mind how.

You know youve ruined my life?!

No. I saved it. Youd have suffered more later on. Marry me, Emily. What do you say?

Youre crazy! Emily shot up and marched home.

She moved away from the city, but Charles found her, still trying to persuade her. Eventually they became friends, nothing more.

A year later, Charles passed away, leaving everything to her, but Emily felt no joy. Shed got used to having him around, as her ex-fiancés stepfather.

As for Henry, he was furious at losing the flat, but Emily couldnt have cared less about him by then.

The Cuckoo Stayed Longer Than Expected — Seriously? She can’t be for real! — Sasha flared up. — Yura, come here! Right now! Her husband, just having kicked off his trainers in the hallway, peeked through the doorway, unbuttoning his collar as he entered. — Sash, what now? I’ve only just got home, my head’s splitting… — ‘What now?’ — Sasha gestured furiously at the edge of the bath. — Have a proper look. Where’s my shampoo? What about the hair mask I literally bought yesterday? Yura squinted, his eyesight not what it once was, scanning the neat row of bottles. A giant bottle of tar shampoo (who even uses that?) had pride of place, next to a family-sized “Burdock” and a heavy brown glass jar of some unbelievably dark hair cream. — Erm… That’s all Mum’s stuff. She must have brought it round. She probably finds it easier having her things to hand… — he muttered, avoiding eye contact with his wife. — Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! And now, check down there. Sasha crouched and pulled out a plastic basin from underneath the bath. Her expensive French toiletries had been dumped inside, along with her loofah and razor. — What is this, Yura? She’s swept all my things up into this filthy tub and arranged her own products like royalty! She decided my things belonged next to the mop, but her “Burdock” deserves pride of place on the bath ledge! Yura gave a heavy sigh. — Sash, don’t get worked up. Mum’s really not well at the moment, you know that. I’ll just put it all back, and we can go have dinner. She’s made cabbage rolls, by the way… — I’m not eating her cabbage rolls, — Sasha shot back. — Why is she always here anyway? Why does she treat my home like her own, Yura?! I feel like a lodger, and I’m lucky if I’m even allowed to use the toilet. Sasha stormed out, pushing past her husband, while Yura quietly slid the tub of her things back under the bath with his foot. The so-called “housing problem”, the one that’s plagued millions, hadn’t even touched Sasha and Yura. Yura had his own spacious flat in a new-build, inherited from his paternal grandfather. Sasha had a cosy one-bedroom she’d got from her grandma. After their wedding, they decided to settle in Yura’s place — it was recently renovated, had air-con — and Sasha’s was let out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents had always followed the “armed neutrality verging on polite sympathy” rule. Svetlana Anatolievna and her husband, the ever-civil and practically mute Viktor Petrovich, lived on the other side of London. There were weekly teas, the usual check-ins about health and work, polite smiles exchanged. — Oh Sasha, you look like you’ve lost weight, — Svetlana would say, nudging a slice of cake her way. — Yura darling, aren’t you feeding your wife? — Mum, we’re just going to the gym now, — Yura would laugh it off. And that was it. No unannounced visits, no advice on managing the house. Sasha would even boast to her friends: — I’m so lucky with my mother-in-law. She’s golden. Never interferes, never lectures me, never nags Yura. Everything fell apart one gloomy Tuesday, when Viktor Petrovich, husband of thirty-two years, suddenly packed a suitcase, scrawled a note — “Gone to the seaside, don’t look for me!” — blocked every contact, and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just a phrase, but an actual sun-tanned administrator from a Bognor Regis spa hotel they’d visited together over the past three summers. For sixty-year-old Svetlana, her world turned upside down. First came the tears, then 3am calls, endless rehashing: — How could he? Why? Oh Sasha, how could this happen?! Sasha was genuinely sympathetic at first. She bought sedatives for her mother-in-law, listened to the same story for the tenth time and nodded, even when Svetlana cursed “that ancient womaniser”. But soon her patience wore thin — and the ceaseless whining started to really get on her nerves. — Yura, she called five times before noon, — Sasha grumbled one breakfast. — She wants you to change a lightbulb in her hallway. I get it, I do. But… when will it ever end? Yura looked crestfallen. — She’s lonely, Sash. She’s always had Dad to rely on, it’s… Don’t be upset with her, please… — She can change a bulb or call a handyman. She just wants one of us to come over. Why should I have to? Then came the sleepovers — her husband started staying at his mum’s. — Sash, Mum can’t sleep alone, — Yura said apologetically, packing his overnight bag. — She says the silence is too much. Just a couple nights at hers, yeah? — Couple nights? — Sasha frowned. — Yura, we’ve only just got married and you’re already moving out half the week! I don’t want to sleep alone every other night. — Sash, it’s temporary. She just needs to get her bearings, then things’ll go back to normal. “Temporary” dragged on for a month. Svetlana demanded her son stay four nights a week — evenings and nights. She feigned dizzy spells, panic attacks, even engineered drains to get blocked in the sink — all to keep Yura there. Sasha watched her husband being ground down, split between two homes, and finally made the mistake she’d regret every day afterwards. *** She decided to have a heart-to-heart with her mother-in-law. — Listen, Svetlana, — she began at Sunday lunch. — If you really can’t stand being alone in those four walls, why don’t you come to ours during the day? Yura’s at work, I often work from home. You can wander the park, sit with us… Yura can drop you home in the evenings. Svetlana gave her a strange look. — Actually, Sasha, you clever thing… Why am I rotting at home? Sasha expected a visit or two a week, imagining the mother-in-law would rock up around noon and leave by the time Yura was back… But Svetlana had her own ideas — she arrived at exactly 7am. — Who’s there? — Yura murmured, half asleep, hearing the doorbell. He went to open it himself. — It’s me! — rang out Svetlana’s cheery voice. — I brought you some fresh cottage cheese! Sasha pulled the covers over her head. — For crying out loud… — she hissed. — Yura, it’s 7am! Where does she even get fresh cottage cheese at this time?! — Mum’s an early bird, — Yura was already pulling on his trousers. — You go back to sleep, I’ll let her in. From then on, their life became a nightmare. Svetlana didn’t just visit — she spent every working hour in the flat. Sasha tried to work, but her mother-in-law hovered: — Sasha, haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth, here, I’ll do it now. — Svetlana, I’m actually busy, I’ve got a call in five minutes! — Oh, what call? Just staring at the screen. And by the way, dear, you iron Yura’s shirts wrong. The creases should be sharp. I’ll show you, while you’re waiting for “clients”. Everything was criticised. How she chopped veg: “Yura likes them sliced, not diced like a school canteen.” How the bed was made: “The cover should reach the floor. Yours is half-hearted.” How the bathroom smelt: “Should be fresh and lovely; smells musty in here.” — Sash, darling, don’t take it the wrong way, — her mother-in-law’d say, peering in the soup pot. — But you’ve oversalted this. Yura’s got a sensitive stomach, you knew that, right? You’ll ruin him, cooking like that. Move aside, I’ll fix it. — He likes the soup, — Sasha muttered, fists clenched. — He had two bowls last night. — Oh, he’s just too polite to upset you, the poor thing. By lunch, Sasha was ready to snap. She’d hide in a coffee shop for hours just to avoid hearing the relentless nagging. When she returned, her mood soured further. First, her “favourite mug” appeared — a massive, tacky thing saying “Best Mum”. Then a spare raincoat turned up on a hook, and a week later, Svetlana had a shelf in the wardrobe for “indoor things” and a couple of housecoats. — Why do you need housecoats here? — Sasha asked, finding a pink terry monstrosity squeezed in with her silk slips. — Well, darling, I’m here all day. I get tired, so I want to change into something relaxing. We’re family. Why so huffy? Yura had a single answer to every complaint: — Sash, have a bit of understanding. She’s lost her husband. She needs to feel wanted. It’s just a shelf. — It’s not the shelf, Yura! Your mum is squeezing me out of my own flat! — Don’t exaggerate. She cooks, she cleans. You said yourself you hate ironing. — I’d rather be wrinkled than pressed by her! — Sasha shouted. Her husband didn’t hear. *** The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw. — Yura, come out, — Svetlana called from the kitchen. — The cabbage rolls are getting cold! Sasha, come on, I made yours with less pepper. I know you don’t like the heat. Sasha burst into the kitchen, where her mother-in-law was already setting out plates. — Svetlana, — she said as calmly as possible. — Why did you put my things under the bath? Her mother-in-law didn’t even blink. She gently placed a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled: — Oh, those bottles? But yours were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell… so strong, gave me a headache. I’ve put my own in — they’re much nicer. Yours are safe under there, out of the way. You don’t mind, do you? A bit of a tidy was overdue anyway. — I do mind, — Sasha moved towards the table. — That’s my bathroom. My things. And my home! — Oh, is it really yours, dear? — Svetlana sat down with a theatrical sigh. — The flat’s Yura’s, after all. You’re in charge, of course, but… you know. A wife should have respect for her husband’s mother, too. Yura, pale at the door, stammered: — Mum, come on… Sasha’s place is ours too, we just live here… — What place? — his mother waved him off. — Just an old granny flat. Yura, sit down. Look, your wife’s in another mood again – probably hungry. Sasha looked at her husband. She waited. Waited for him to say, “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed the line. Pack your things and go home.” Instead Yura hesitated, flicking his eyes between them… and sat down at the table. — Sash, come on, eat something. Let’s just talk this through, calmly. Mum, you shouldn’t have touched her stuff… — See! — Svetlana exclaimed. — He understands. But you, Sasha, you’re so hard. Don’t be so territorial. Family is about sharing. Sasha’s patience finally shattered. — Sharing? — she echoed. — Fine. She turned and left the kitchen. Yura called after her, but she didn’t listen. She packed her things in twenty minutes, stuffed everything into suitcases. Didn’t bother with the bottles — she’d buy new ones. She left to a chorus of voices: her husband pleading, her mother-in-law sighing with barely-veiled insults. *** Sasha didn’t look back. She filed for divorce almost the moment she left. Her still-legal husband calls daily to beg her return, while her mother-in-law slowly transports her belongings into his flat. Sasha is certain: that was what she wanted all along.

00

She Got My Mother-in-Law Back on Her Feet—But I’m Furious Because I Didn’t Weed the Garden Beds “What are you doing here?” shouted my mother-in-law, standing in the middle of the swan-shaped flowerbeds. “Such shame has never happened here before. I never had to hide behind my children—I raised seven, and not a single weed!” Her shouting had already attracted the neighbours. Clinging to the fence like crows, they wasted no time gossiping about everything they’d heard. With an audience, my mother-in-law only grew more theatrical. She went on and on while I stood there speechless. Finally, exhausted from her own drama, she took a deep breath and declared loudly enough for every neighbour to hear: I didn’t say a word. I walked past my mother-in-law calmly, tightening my hold on the child in my arms. Once inside, I packed everything she and I would need for that evening and the morning after, methodically separating the items in a special box. Without a second thought, I tossed my son’s things and my own into a bag and left, saying nothing to her. Three days later, my mother-in-law called: “What did you do with all those things the professor gave her? I asked the neighbour to buy a few, but she said one jar was very expensive, and we don’t touch the ones labelled in foreign languages. So what am I supposed to do? You stormed off upset about something, and now here I am, left to meet my maker?” I didn’t answer. I turned off my phone and removed the SIM card. That was it; I simply couldn’t go any further—I was out of physical and mental strength. A year ago, just before my son was born, my husband lost control of the car on an icy road. My memory of the days is a blur: saying goodbye to him, the ambulance taking him away, and then the next morning, I became a mother. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Without my beloved husband, everything around me seemed unnecessary and meaningless. I nursed and rocked my baby in a daze, simply because I was told to. Then the phone rang. “Your mother-in-law isn’t well. She may not live long after her son.” I made my decision instantly. After checking out of the hospital, I immediately sold our flat in London. I invested part of the money into building a new home so my son would have something for his future. And then I went to care for my mother-in-law. That year, I didn’t live—I simply existed. I barely slept, looking after both my mother-in-law and my infant son. The baby was restless, and my mother-in-law needed my constant attention. Thankfully, I had money. I called the best specialists from across the UK to come and see her. I bought every medication prescribed, and slowly, my mother-in-law returned to normal life. First, I wheeled her around the house, then the garden. By the end, she was strong enough to walk on her own—and then… I no longer want to see or hear from her again. Let her figure out her recovery herself. At least I was wise enough not to spend all my money on her. My son and I moved into a new home. I never imagined it would end up like this. I wanted to share my life with my husband’s mother, since I’m an orphan myself. But now, it’s just me. I need to teach my son: not everyone deserves kindness. Some people care more about tidy vegetable patches than about the people who save their lives.

01

The Cuckoo Stayed Longer Than Expected — Seriously? She can’t be for real! — Sasha flared up. — Yura, come here! Right now! Her husband, just having kicked off his trainers in the hallway, peeked through the doorway, unbuttoning his collar as he entered. — Sash, what now? I’ve only just got home, my head’s splitting… — ‘What now?’ — Sasha gestured furiously at the edge of the bath. — Have a proper look. Where’s my shampoo? What about the hair mask I literally bought yesterday? Yura squinted, his eyesight not what it once was, scanning the neat row of bottles. A giant bottle of tar shampoo (who even uses that?) had pride of place, next to a family-sized “Burdock” and a heavy brown glass jar of some unbelievably dark hair cream. — Erm… That’s all Mum’s stuff. She must have brought it round. She probably finds it easier having her things to hand… — he muttered, avoiding eye contact with his wife. — Easier? Yura, she doesn’t even live here! And now, check down there. Sasha crouched and pulled out a plastic basin from underneath the bath. Her expensive French toiletries had been dumped inside, along with her loofah and razor. — What is this, Yura? She’s swept all my things up into this filthy tub and arranged her own products like royalty! She decided my things belonged next to the mop, but her “Burdock” deserves pride of place on the bath ledge! Yura gave a heavy sigh. — Sash, don’t get worked up. Mum’s really not well at the moment, you know that. I’ll just put it all back, and we can go have dinner. She’s made cabbage rolls, by the way… — I’m not eating her cabbage rolls, — Sasha shot back. — Why is she always here anyway? Why does she treat my home like her own, Yura?! I feel like a lodger, and I’m lucky if I’m even allowed to use the toilet. Sasha stormed out, pushing past her husband, while Yura quietly slid the tub of her things back under the bath with his foot. The so-called “housing problem”, the one that’s plagued millions, hadn’t even touched Sasha and Yura. Yura had his own spacious flat in a new-build, inherited from his paternal grandfather. Sasha had a cosy one-bedroom she’d got from her grandma. After their wedding, they decided to settle in Yura’s place — it was recently renovated, had air-con — and Sasha’s was let out to a nice family. Relations with Yura’s parents had always followed the “armed neutrality verging on polite sympathy” rule. Svetlana Anatolievna and her husband, the ever-civil and practically mute Viktor Petrovich, lived on the other side of London. There were weekly teas, the usual check-ins about health and work, polite smiles exchanged. — Oh Sasha, you look like you’ve lost weight, — Svetlana would say, nudging a slice of cake her way. — Yura darling, aren’t you feeding your wife? — Mum, we’re just going to the gym now, — Yura would laugh it off. And that was it. No unannounced visits, no advice on managing the house. Sasha would even boast to her friends: — I’m so lucky with my mother-in-law. She’s golden. Never interferes, never lectures me, never nags Yura. Everything fell apart one gloomy Tuesday, when Viktor Petrovich, husband of thirty-two years, suddenly packed a suitcase, scrawled a note — “Gone to the seaside, don’t look for me!” — blocked every contact, and vanished. Turns out “midlife crisis” wasn’t just a phrase, but an actual sun-tanned administrator from a Bognor Regis spa hotel they’d visited together over the past three summers. For sixty-year-old Svetlana, her world turned upside down. First came the tears, then 3am calls, endless rehashing: — How could he? Why? Oh Sasha, how could this happen?! Sasha was genuinely sympathetic at first. She bought sedatives for her mother-in-law, listened to the same story for the tenth time and nodded, even when Svetlana cursed “that ancient womaniser”. But soon her patience wore thin — and the ceaseless whining started to really get on her nerves. — Yura, she called five times before noon, — Sasha grumbled one breakfast. — She wants you to change a lightbulb in her hallway. I get it, I do. But… when will it ever end? Yura looked crestfallen. — She’s lonely, Sash. She’s always had Dad to rely on, it’s… Don’t be upset with her, please… — She can change a bulb or call a handyman. She just wants one of us to come over. Why should I have to? Then came the sleepovers — her husband started staying at his mum’s. — Sash, Mum can’t sleep alone, — Yura said apologetically, packing his overnight bag. — She says the silence is too much. Just a couple nights at hers, yeah? — Couple nights? — Sasha frowned. — Yura, we’ve only just got married and you’re already moving out half the week! I don’t want to sleep alone every other night. — Sash, it’s temporary. She just needs to get her bearings, then things’ll go back to normal. “Temporary” dragged on for a month. Svetlana demanded her son stay four nights a week — evenings and nights. She feigned dizzy spells, panic attacks, even engineered drains to get blocked in the sink — all to keep Yura there. Sasha watched her husband being ground down, split between two homes, and finally made the mistake she’d regret every day afterwards. *** She decided to have a heart-to-heart with her mother-in-law. — Listen, Svetlana, — she began at Sunday lunch. — If you really can’t stand being alone in those four walls, why don’t you come to ours during the day? Yura’s at work, I often work from home. You can wander the park, sit with us… Yura can drop you home in the evenings. Svetlana gave her a strange look. — Actually, Sasha, you clever thing… Why am I rotting at home? Sasha expected a visit or two a week, imagining the mother-in-law would rock up around noon and leave by the time Yura was back… But Svetlana had her own ideas — she arrived at exactly 7am. — Who’s there? — Yura murmured, half asleep, hearing the doorbell. He went to open it himself. — It’s me! — rang out Svetlana’s cheery voice. — I brought you some fresh cottage cheese! Sasha pulled the covers over her head. — For crying out loud… — she hissed. — Yura, it’s 7am! Where does she even get fresh cottage cheese at this time?! — Mum’s an early bird, — Yura was already pulling on his trousers. — You go back to sleep, I’ll let her in. From then on, their life became a nightmare. Svetlana didn’t just visit — she spent every working hour in the flat. Sasha tried to work, but her mother-in-law hovered: — Sasha, haven’t you dusted the telly? I found a cloth, here, I’ll do it now. — Svetlana, I’m actually busy, I’ve got a call in five minutes! — Oh, what call? Just staring at the screen. And by the way, dear, you iron Yura’s shirts wrong. The creases should be sharp. I’ll show you, while you’re waiting for “clients”. Everything was criticised. How she chopped veg: “Yura likes them sliced, not diced like a school canteen.” How the bed was made: “The cover should reach the floor. Yours is half-hearted.” How the bathroom smelt: “Should be fresh and lovely; smells musty in here.” — Sash, darling, don’t take it the wrong way, — her mother-in-law’d say, peering in the soup pot. — But you’ve oversalted this. Yura’s got a sensitive stomach, you knew that, right? You’ll ruin him, cooking like that. Move aside, I’ll fix it. — He likes the soup, — Sasha muttered, fists clenched. — He had two bowls last night. — Oh, he’s just too polite to upset you, the poor thing. By lunch, Sasha was ready to snap. She’d hide in a coffee shop for hours just to avoid hearing the relentless nagging. When she returned, her mood soured further. First, her “favourite mug” appeared — a massive, tacky thing saying “Best Mum”. Then a spare raincoat turned up on a hook, and a week later, Svetlana had a shelf in the wardrobe for “indoor things” and a couple of housecoats. — Why do you need housecoats here? — Sasha asked, finding a pink terry monstrosity squeezed in with her silk slips. — Well, darling, I’m here all day. I get tired, so I want to change into something relaxing. We’re family. Why so huffy? Yura had a single answer to every complaint: — Sash, have a bit of understanding. She’s lost her husband. She needs to feel wanted. It’s just a shelf. — It’s not the shelf, Yura! Your mum is squeezing me out of my own flat! — Don’t exaggerate. She cooks, she cleans. You said yourself you hate ironing. — I’d rather be wrinkled than pressed by her! — Sasha shouted. Her husband didn’t hear. *** The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw. — Yura, come out, — Svetlana called from the kitchen. — The cabbage rolls are getting cold! Sasha, come on, I made yours with less pepper. I know you don’t like the heat. Sasha burst into the kitchen, where her mother-in-law was already setting out plates. — Svetlana, — she said as calmly as possible. — Why did you put my things under the bath? Her mother-in-law didn’t even blink. She gently placed a fork beside Yura’s plate and smiled: — Oh, those bottles? But yours were nearly empty, taking up space. And the smell… so strong, gave me a headache. I’ve put my own in — they’re much nicer. Yours are safe under there, out of the way. You don’t mind, do you? A bit of a tidy was overdue anyway. — I do mind, — Sasha moved towards the table. — That’s my bathroom. My things. And my home! — Oh, is it really yours, dear? — Svetlana sat down with a theatrical sigh. — The flat’s Yura’s, after all. You’re in charge, of course, but… you know. A wife should have respect for her husband’s mother, too. Yura, pale at the door, stammered: — Mum, come on… Sasha’s place is ours too, we just live here… — What place? — his mother waved him off. — Just an old granny flat. Yura, sit down. Look, your wife’s in another mood again – probably hungry. Sasha looked at her husband. She waited. Waited for him to say, “Mum, enough. You’ve crossed the line. Pack your things and go home.” Instead Yura hesitated, flicking his eyes between them… and sat down at the table. — Sash, come on, eat something. Let’s just talk this through, calmly. Mum, you shouldn’t have touched her stuff… — See! — Svetlana exclaimed. — He understands. But you, Sasha, you’re so hard. Don’t be so territorial. Family is about sharing. Sasha’s patience finally shattered. — Sharing? — she echoed. — Fine. She turned and left the kitchen. Yura called after her, but she didn’t listen. She packed her things in twenty minutes, stuffed everything into suitcases. Didn’t bother with the bottles — she’d buy new ones. She left to a chorus of voices: her husband pleading, her mother-in-law sighing with barely-veiled insults. *** Sasha didn’t look back. She filed for divorce almost the moment she left. Her still-legal husband calls daily to beg her return, while her mother-in-law slowly transports her belongings into his flat. Sasha is certain: that was what she wanted all along.

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“We’ll Be Staying With You for a While, Since We Can’t Afford to Rent a Flat! – My Friend Announced to Me I’m a very active woman. Even at 65, I still manage to explore new places and meet all sorts of fascinating people. I look back on my youth with both joy and nostalgia—back then, you could spend your holidays wherever you wanted! You could travel to the seaside, go camping with friends, or take a boat trip down any river—and all for just a little money. Sadly, those days are long gone. I’ve always loved meeting new people. I met friends on the beach, at the theatre—and some friendships lasted for years. One day, I met a woman named Sarah while holidaying at the same B&B. We parted as friends and over the years, sent each other the occasional letter. Then, one day, I received an unsigned telegram: “The train arrives at 3 a.m. Meet me!” I had no idea who had sent it, so my husband and I stayed home. But at 4 a.m., there was a knock at our door. I was stunned when I opened it: Sarah stood there with two teenage daughters, her grandmother, and a man, all with a mountain of luggage. My husband and I were bewildered. But we let them in, and Sarah said to me: “Why didn’t you meet us? I sent you a telegram! You know that costs money!” “Sorry, but we didn’t know who sent it!” “Well, you gave me your address. Here I am.” “I thought we’d just write letters, that’s all!” Sarah explained that one of the girls had just finished school and planned to go to university, so the family had come to support her. “We’re going to stay with you! We can’t afford to rent a flat or a hotel!” I was shocked. We weren’t even related—why should we let them move in? We had to feed our guests three times a day. They brought some food, but never cooked; they just ate ours, and I had to serve them all. After three days, I couldn’t take it anymore and asked Sarah and her family to leave. I didn’t care where they went. A huge row erupted. Sarah started smashing dishes and shouting hysterically. I was just dumbfounded by her behaviour. Then, Sarah and her family started packing. They managed to steal my dressing gown, several towels, and even somehow snuck out with my big saucepan. I still don’t understand how—but it just vanished! And that was the end of our friendship. Thank goodness! I never heard from her again, and never saw her. How could anyone be so brazen! I’m much more cautious now when I meet new people.”

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

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

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

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

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

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

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

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

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

You’re a Traitor — The Wedding Is Off