You’re Just Jealous “Mum, are you serious? The Savoy? That’s at least five hundred pounds for dinner! Per person.” Igor threw his keys onto the sideboard so they rattled against the wall. Olga turned from the hob, where she was stirring the sauce, and instantly noticed her husband’s whitened knuckles gripping his phone. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then swore and abruptly hung up. “What happened?” Instead of answering, Igor slumped into a kitchen chair and stared at his plate of potatoes. Olga switched off the burner, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat opposite. “Igor…” “She’s gone absolutely mad. Lost it, completely.” He looked up; Olga saw such a mixture of anger and helplessness in his eyes that her heart clenched. “Remember I told you about that… Victor? From the dance class?” Olga nodded. His mum had mentioned her new companion about a month ago—shyly, fidgeting with the corner of the tablecloth. It had seemed quite sweet: a 58-year-old widow, five years alone, and now—a ballroom dancing club at the community centre, a charming gent who could twirl her in a waltz. “Well.” Igor pushed his plate aside. “She’s taken him to the Savoy. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a suit for four grand. Last weekend they took a trip to Bath—guess who paid for the hotel and tours?” “Mrs Taylor.” “Bingo.” He rubbed his hand down his face. “Mum saved that money for years. For a new boiler. For a rainy day. Now she’s blowing it all on a man she’s known for six weeks. Unreal…” Olga fell silent, choosing her words. She knew her mother-in-law well—romantic, open, almost guilelessly trusting. The sort of woman who believes in true love even after half a century on earth. “Listen, Igor…” She covered his hand with hers. “Your mum’s an adult. Her money, her choices. Don’t interfere. She won’t hear anyone right now.” “She’s making mistake after mistake!” “Yes. And she has a right to. And frankly, you’re exaggerating.” Igor shrugged, but didn’t pull away. “I just can’t watch her—” “I know, love. But you can’t live her life for her.” Olga stroked his wrist. “She has to take responsibility—even if we don’t like it. She’s perfectly capable.” Igor nodded morosely. …Two months passed in a flash. Talk of Victor faded—his mum phoned less and seemed evasive, as if she were hiding something. Olga decided the romance had fizzled and stopped worrying. So when the doorbell rang on Sunday evening and Mrs Taylor was on the doorstep, Olga didn’t know what to think. “Darlings! My dear darlings!” She swept into the flat, trailing clouds of sweet perfume. “He proposed! Look! Look!” A ring with a tiny stone sparkled on her finger. Cheap, but Mrs Taylor looked at it as if it was a great diamond. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s so, so…” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and laughed—a bright, girlish sound. “I never thought, at my age… That I’d ever feel this again…” Igor hugged his mum, and Olga saw his shoulders relax. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe Victor really did love her, and they’d only been worrying for nothing. “We’re happy for you, mum.” Igor let go and smiled. “You deserve to be happy.” “And I’ve already signed the flat over to him! Now we’re a proper family!” Mrs Taylor announced, and time seemed to freeze. Olga stopped breathing. Igor jerked, as if he’d walked into a glass wall. “What… what did you say?” “The flat.” She waved her hand, oblivious to their faces. “So he knows I trust him. It’s love, darlings, real love! And love is built on trust.” A silence thick enough to hear the clock ticking in the sitting room. “Mrs Taylor.” Olga spoke first, slowly, carefully. “You’ve signed your flat over to a man you’ve known three months? Before the wedding?” “And?” Mrs Taylor tilted her chin. “I trust him. He’s a good, decent man. Not what you imagine. You think badly of him, I know you do.” “We don’t think anything,” Olga stepped forward. “But maybe you could’ve waited until after the ceremony. Why rush?” “You don’t understand. This… This is proof of my love.” Mrs Taylor folded her arms. “What do you know about real feelings? About trust?” Igor finally unclenched his jaw: “Mum—” “No!” She stamped her foot, suddenly more stubborn teenager than grown woman. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it for me!” She spun and rushed out, banging the door so hard the glass rattled in the cabinet. The wedding was small—a registry office in Enfield, charity shop dress, and a three-rose bouquet. But Mrs Taylor glowed as if she was marrying in Westminster Abbey. Victor—a portly man with a receding hairline and oily smile—played the perfect gentleman. Kissing her hand, pulling out her chair, topping up her prosecco. The ideal groom. Olga watched him over her glass. Something wasn’t right. His eyes—when he looked at Mrs Taylor, the pupils stayed cold, calculating. Practised affection. Rehearsed care. She kept her thoughts to herself. What was the point of talking when no one listened? The first months, Mrs Taylor called every week—bubbling with excitement, listing restaurants and theatres he took her to. “He’s so thoughtful! Yesterday he brought me roses—just because!” Igor nodded along, then hung up and sat in silence, staring into space. Olga said nothing. She waited. A year passed in a blur. Then—the doorbell… Olga opened the door to a woman she barely recognised. Mrs Taylor looked ten years older—deeper wrinkles, hollow eyes, hunched shoulders. One hand gripped her battered suitcase, the very one that once went to Bath. “He threw me out.” Mrs Taylor sobbed. “Filed for divorce and threw me out. The flat… it’s his now. Legally.” In silence, Olga let her in. The kettle boiled quickly. Mrs Taylor sat clutching her cup with both hands, crying quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so. I did everything for him. And he just…” Olga didn’t interrupt. Just rubbed her back as the tears ran dry. Igor returned an hour later, paused in the doorway, and his face went hard. “Son.” Mrs Taylor rose, held her hands out. “Son, I’ve nowhere to go… You wouldn’t turn your mum out, would you? Give me a room—I won’t take up much. Children are meant to care for their parents, that’s—” “Stop.” Igor raised his hand. “Stop, mum.” “I have no money. None. I spent it all on him, every penny. The pension’s small, you know—” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you.” Igor sank onto the sofa, heavy as if the world’s weight was on him. “Said don’t rush. Said get to know him. Said don’t sign over the flat. Do you remember what you told me?” Mrs Taylor’s eyes dropped. “That I didn’t know true love. That we were just jealous. I remember everything, mum.” “Igor…” Olga tried to stop him, but he shook his head. “No. Let her hear it.” He turned to his mum. “You’re a grown woman. You made your choice. You ignored everyone who tried to stop you. And now, you want us to deal with the fallout?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” Igor shot to his feet, voice cracking. “I’m tired, mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away, then run to me for rescue!” Mrs Taylor shrank, small and pitiful. “He lied to me, son. I really loved him, I trusted—” “Trusted him so much you handed the flat to a stranger. Brilliant, mum. Just brilliant. And what about the fact that Dad bought this flat!” “Forgive me.” The tears flowed again. “Forgive me. I was blind, I know. But please… let me have one more chance. I’ll never—” “Adults bear the consequences of their choices.” Igor’s voice was quiet, tired. “You wanted independence? You’ve got it. Sort your own accommodation. Find a job. You’re on your own.” Mrs Taylor left, sobbing loudly on the landing. Olga spent the whole night beside Igor—silent, just holding his hand. Igor didn’t cry. Just lay staring at the ceiling, sighing from time to time. “Did I do the right thing?” he murmured at dawn. “Yes.” Olga stroked his cheek. “It was hard. It hurt. But yes.” In the morning, Igor called his mum and rented her a room in a house-share at the edge of town. Paid six months up front. It was the last help he agreed to. “From now on, you’re on your own, mum. On your own. If you go to court, we’ll help with legal fees. But living here—no.” Olga listened and wondered about justice. About how, sometimes, the harshest lesson is the only one that works. Mrs Taylor got exactly what her blindness brought. And somehow that was both bitter and comforting. And she knew, deep down, this wasn’t the end, and somehow, things would work out. She didn’t know how—but they would…

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 1

You’re just jealous

Mum, are you serious right now? Thats the Savoy! Thatll be at least two hundred pounds for dinner. Per person.

Edward hurled his keys onto the dresser so violently they bounced off the wall with a metallic clang. Margaret paused from stirring the gravy, her hand faltering as she noticed Edwards knuckles whitened around his phone.

He sat in stony silence, listening for several minutes more, then swore and abruptly hung up.

Whats happened? Margaret asked, cautiously.

Edward slumped at the kitchen table, glowering at his plate of potatoes. Margaret turned off the hob, wiped her hands on the tea towel and sat opposite him.

Edward…

Mums finally lost it. Totally barmy in her old age. His eyes flicked upanger and helplessness mixed in their pale blue depths. Remember I told you about that… Geoffrey? From the dance classes?

Margaret nodded. Her mother-in-law had mentioned a new gentleman friend last monthalmost shyly, toying with the tablecloth, a little giggle catching in her throat. It had sounded sweet, then: a fifty-eight-year-old widow, five years on her own, now whirling round the local community centre with a dashing partner who could waltz her off her feet.

Well, Edward shoved his plate away, shes taken him to the Savoy. Three times in a fortnight. Bought him a suit for eight hundred quid. Last weekend they went to Bath for the markets, guess who paid for the hotel and all the guided tours?
Elizabeth, of course.
Bingo. He dragged a hand over his face. Mums been saving that money for years. For the house, for a rainy day. Now shes squandering it on some bloke shes barely known a month and a half. Its crackers…

Margaret paused, searching for the right words. Her mother-in-law was the sort who still believed in true love, even after half a century on earthopen-hearted and almost gullible in her trust.

Ed… look, she set her hand over his, your mums old enough to make her own choices. Its her money, her decisions. Leave her be. She wont listen to anyone right now, you know that.
Shes making mistake after mistake!
Maybe. But thats her right, isnt it? To make them? Honestly, youre overreacting.

He shrugged but didnt move his hand away.

I just cant bear to watch…
I know, love, Margaret squeezed his wrist. But you cant live her life for her. Shes responsible for herself, even if we dont approve. Shes hardly lost her wits.

Edward gave a surly nod.

* * *

Two months slipped by. Talk of Geoffrey faded; her mother-in-law called less frequently, her tone guarded as though something had changed. Margaret assumed the romance had fizzled out and let her concerns drift away.

So when the doorbell rang unexpectedly late on a Sunday and Elizabeth burst in, Margaret barely had time to register what was happening.

My dears! Oh, my dears! Elizabeth twirled into the flat, trailing an effervescent perfume behind her. Hes proposed! Just look! Look!

On her finger perched a ring with a minuscule stone, utterly cheap, but Elizabeth gazed at it as if it were a rare diamond.

Were getting married! Next month! Hes just so, so… She pressed her palms to her cheeks, laughing girlishly. I never dreamed, not at my age, that Id feel anything like this again…

Edward hugged his mother, and Margaret could see his tension soften a little. Perhaps things werent as bad as theyd feared. Perhaps Geoffrey really loved Elizabeth and theyd worried for nothing.

Congratulations, Mum. Edward stepped back, forcing a smile. You deserve happiness.

Ive already put the flat in his name! Were a proper family now! Elizabeth gushed, and everything froze.

Margarets heartbeat stalled. Edward snapped upright, as if running headlong into a glass wall.

What…what did you say?
The flat, she waved a hand, oblivious to their faces. Well, I wanted him to know I trust him. Its love, childrenreal love! And love is grounded in trust.

The living room clock ticked loud in the heavy silence.

Elizabeth, Margaret spoke first, each word careful, deliberate. Youve transferred your flat to a man you met three months ago? Before the wedding?
So what? Elizabeth stuck her chin out. I trust him, hes a good, decent man. Hes not like you think. Besides, I know youre judging him.
Were not, Margaret edged closer. But couldnt you wait until after the registry office? Theres no rush.
You dont understand. This isthis is what proves I love him. Elizabeth folded her arms, defensive. What do you lot know about real feelings? About trust?

Edwards jaw unclenched at last.

Mum…
No! She stamped her foot, suddenly more stubborn teenager than sensible woman. I dont want to hear another word! Youre just jealous of my happiness! You want to ruin it all!

With that, Elizabeth flounced out, brushing the door frame with her shoulder as she went. The front door banged, rattling the glass in the cupboard.

* * *

The wedding was modest: the district register office, a second-hand dress, three pink roses. Still, Elizabeth glowed as if she were standing at the altar of Westminster Abbey. Geoffreya portly man with a receding hairline and a slick-gleaming smileplayed the attentive groom, kissing her hand, pulling out her chair, pouring champagne. The image of perfection.

Margaret watched through her glass. Something was off. Geoffreys eyeswhen he looked at Elizabethremained steely, calculating. Professional tenderness. Practised affection.

She kept silent. What was the point when no one wanted to listen?

The next months, Elizabeth telephoned every Saturday, bubbling over with joy and tales of restaurants and theatres Geoffrey took her to.

Hes so thoughtful! Yesterday he brought home liliesno reason at all!

Edward nodded through the calls, then would set the phone down, gaze lost in the wallpaper. Margaret kept her peace, just waiting.

A year passed without much warning.

Thenanother ring at the door…

Margaret found herself staring at a woman she barely recognised. Ten years older, more hollowed, wrinkles biting deeper, stooped shoulders. In her hand was a battered suitcasethe one shed once packed for Bath.

Hes thrown me out, Elizabeth whispered, voice wobbling. Filed for divorce, told me to leave. The flat is his, on the paperwork.

Margaret wordlessly stepped aside to let her in.

The kettle boiled. Elizabeth sat hunched in the old armchair, clinging to her mug, weeping quietly, defeated.

I loved him so much. I did everything for him. And hehe just

Margaret stroked her back, not interrupting, waiting for the tears to run dry.

Edward came through the door an hour later and pausedface hardening as he saw his mother.

Son. Elizabeth rose, reaching out. Ed, Ive got nowhere to go. You wont turn your mother out? Give me a room. I wont take up much space. Children should care for their parents, after all

Stop. Edward raised a hand. Stop, Mum.
Ive got nothing. Nothing. I spent everything on him, every penny. My pensions tiny, you know that
I warned you.
What?
I warned you! Edward slumped onto the sofa, as if weighed down by sandbags. I said dont rush. I said get to know him. I said dont sign over the flat. Do you remember what you told me?

Elizabeths eyes dropped.

That we didnt understand true love. That we were jealous of your happiness. I remember it all, Mum.
Edward… Margaret tried, but he shook his head.
No. Let her listen. He turned. Youre a grown woman. You made your choices. You ignored everyone trying to help. Now you think we can sweep up the consequences?
But Im your mother!
Thats exactly why Im angry! Edwards voice rose, ragged. Im tired, Mum. Tired of watching you throw your life down the drain and coming to me, hand out, afterwards.

Elizabeth shrank, looking very small and spent.

He deceived me, son. I really believed he loved me truly
Believed him so hard you gave your flat to a complete stranger. Marvellous, Mum. Just marvellous. Never mind that it was Dad who bought that flat.
Im sorry. The tears flowed again. I was blind, I know. But please just one more chance. Please. Ill never
Adults answer for their own actions. Edwards words now sounded tired and flat. You wanted independence? Here it is. Find a place. Find a job. Sort yourself out, Mum.

Elizabeth left, sobs echoing along the stairwell.

Margaret spent the whole night by Edwards sideno words, just holding his hand. He didnt cry, but lay there, staring at the ceiling, sighing now and then.

Did I do the right thing? he asked at dawn, grey light creeping through the curtains.
Yes. Margaret stroked his cheek. It was harsh. It hurt. But it was right.

By morning, Edward arranged a room for Elizabeth at a bedsit on the edge of town, six months paid in advance. It was the last help hed offer.

Youre on your own from here, Mum. Well help if you take it to courtwell pay whats needed. But living with us no.

Margaret overheard all of it, thinking about justice. Sometimes, she mused, the hardest lessons are the only ones that work. Her mother-in-law had reaped the fruits of her own blindness.

The taste was bitter and calm at once. Still, a dream-like certainty lingered within Margaret: that somehow, this wasnt the end, and things might come right yet. How, she couldnt guessbut perhaps, through some strange and impossible twist, they would.

Dandelion Jam The snowy winter has finally ended. It wasn’t very harsh this year—just mild and filled with flurries—but even so, it’s worn out its welcome, and now everyone longs for green leaves, colourful sights, and the chance to shed their heavy winter coats. Spring arrives in a sleepy English market town. Tasha adores spring, eagerly awaiting the return of nature—and finally, she’s rewarded. Peering from her third-floor flat window, she muses: “With these warm spring days, the whole town seems to have woken from a long, wintry slumber. Even the traffic hums differently now, and the market is alive again. People in bright jackets and coats bustle here and there, and the morning birds are noisier than our alarm clocks. Oh, spring is lovely, but summer… that’s even better!” Tasha has lived in this five-storey block for years. Now, she shares it with her granddaughter, Vera, who’s in Year Four. Vera’s parents—both doctors—moved to Africa for work a year ago, entrusting their daughter to her gran. “Mum, we’re leaving Vera in your care. No dragging her halfway across the world! We know you’ll watch over your favourite granddaughter,” Tasha’s daughter declared. “Oh, of course I will—I’ll be happier with company! Now off you go, Vera and I’ll manage just fine,” Tasha replied. “Yay, Gran! Just you and me—plenty of trips to the park, and more time together. Mum and Dad are always too busy!” Vera cheered. After serving breakfast and sending Vera off to school, Tasha busied herself with housework—time slipped away. “I’ll pop to the shop before Vera gets back—she earned a treat for her top marks,” she thought, pulling on her boots. She left her flat to find two neighbours already perched on the communal bench, cushions beneath them to soften the chill. Mrs Simmons—ageless and living alone, perhaps seventy, perhaps more—keeps her birthday a secret and occupies a ground floor studio. Valerie, a lively 75-year-old, well-read and brimming with tales, is Simmons’s opposite—always laughing and full of life. As soon as the snow melts and the sun warms the ground, this bench is never empty, and Simmons and Valerie are its regulars. They spend all day chatting, with the briefest interlude for lunch at home. They know everything about everyone in the block—not even a fly gets past their watchful eyes. Sometimes Tasha joins them to swap stories—TV shows, books, the latest local news. Mrs Simmons is fond of discussing her blood pressure. “Morning, ladies!” Tasha grinned. “Already on duty?” “Morning, Tosh! Of course—otherwise they’d mark us absent. Off to the shop, are you?” Simmons declared, eyeing Tasha’s shopping bag. “Spot on. Vera’s expecting something sweet for her stellar grades,” Tasha waved, heading off. The day passed in a blur. Tasha picked up Vera from school, fed her supper, then Vera buried herself in homework while Tasha watched a bit of television. “Gran, I’m off to dance!” Vera chirped. Vera’s been in dance class six years now—she loves it, performing at all the local events. And proud Tasha can’t help but glow when speaking of her talented granddaughter. “All right, Vera dear—off you go!” said Gran, sending her to rehearsals. Later, Tasha waits alone on the bench for Vera to return from dance. “Feeling lonely?” Her second-floor neighbour, Mr Gordon, took a seat beside her. “How could I be, on a day like this? It’s spring. Gorgeous weather!” Tasha replied. “Yes, the sun’s warming up, the birds are singing—everywhere’s turning green, and those yellow coltsfoot flowers look just like tiny little suns,” Mr Gordon smiled. At that moment, Vera sneaked up and flung her arms around Gran’s neck. “Woof, woof!” “You little rascal! You nearly scared me to death!” Tasha laughed. “Now, now—bit soon to joke about that!” chuckled Mr Gordon, patting her shoulder. “Come along, mischief. I’ve grated carrots with sugar and fried your favourite meatballs. You must be tired after all that dancing,” Gran coaxed, ushering Vera home. Mr Gordon rose to follow them. “What? You’re heading inside too?” Tasha asked. “You made those meatballs sound so good, I got hungry! Maybe I’ll come back out for a stroll later.” Mr Gordon winked. “I can’t promise—busy day! Maybe though…” Tasha smiled. She did come back out for a bit in the evening, just in case. Mr Gordon was waiting—and for once, the regular bench warmers had gone home. “Mrs Simmons and Valerie just slipped away for dinner,” Mr Gordon said cheerfully. From that night on, Tasha and Mr Gordon often met in the park, reading the paper together, swapping stories, recipes, and laughter beneath the old linden tree. Mr Gordon hadn’t had an easy life. Once, he had a wife, daughter, and grandson—but he was widowed young and raised his daughter, Vera, alone while struggling to make ends meet on double shifts. He rarely saw her, as she was often asleep when he left and again when he returned. Vera eventually grew up, married, moved to another city, and had a son. She visited infrequently, and their meetings lacked warmth. After fifteen years, Vera separated from her husband and raised her boy solo. “Tash, my daughter’s coming to visit in two days. Called this morning. Strange… we’ve not spoken in years,” Mr Gordon confided. “Maybe she’s feeling sentimental; getting older makes you treasure family,” Tasha suggested. “I’m not so sure…” he sighed. Vera arrived—sharp, unsmiling, purposeful. Mr Gordon braced for a serious conversation. “Dad, I’m here for a reason. Let’s sell your flat. Come live with us—with your grandson—won’t that be more fun?” Vera said, clearly having made up her mind. But Mr Gordon felt uneasy, not wanting to uproot to a distant city and become a burden to his frosty daughter. He refused, claiming he liked his independence. Vera persisted. Learning of her dad’s friendship with Tasha, she marched over during tea. Tasha served up biscuits and her homemade jam. “So, Vera—what brings you here?” Tasha greeted gently. “I see you’re quite friendly with my father. Can I ask a favour?” “What is it?” “Convince him to sell his flat. Why should one old man rattle around in a space like that? Can’t you think of others?” Vera said, her tone sharp. Startled by Vera’s bluntness, Tasha declined. Vera lost her cool—face red, voice shrill—accusing Tasha of angling for the flat herself, questioning their park strolls, and even their discussion of dandelion recipes. “You two—just a pair of dandelions! Having your little chats, planning your schemes. Have you registered at the registry office yet? Well, it won’t work. Nothing will work—got it, you old hag!” she spat, slamming the door on her way out. Tasha felt embarrassed, hoping the neighbours hadn’t overheard. Soon, though, Vera was gone and Tasha avoided Mr Gordon, rushing home at the sight of him. But fate has its own plans. One afternoon, returning from the shop, Tasha saw Mr Gordon waiting by the bench—he held a bunch of yellow dandelions, deftly weaving them into a garland. “Tasha, don’t rush off,” he pleaded. “Wait a minute. I’m sorry for my daughter. Really. I know what she said… We’ve had a long talk. My grandson will always have my help. But Vera—she’s gone now. Said she no longer has a father. So—here, take this garland. I made dandelion jam; it’s really tasty, very healthy. You must try some. And they’re good in salads too,” he smiled. After that chat, they made a salad together. Tasha enjoyed tea with dandelion jam—she loved it. That evening, they headed to the park again. “I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine,” Mr Gordon said, settling onto their bench beneath the linden tree. Tasha sat beside him, and conversation sparkled—the world faded away, and all that mattered was two friends, together, sharing spring. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

Just a Childhood Friend — Are you seriously planning to spend your entire Saturday sorting junk in the garage? The whole day? — Ellie speared a piece of cheesecake with her fork and shot a sceptical look at the tall, ginger-haired lad opposite her. Ian leaned back in his chair, warming his hands on his cooling cappuccino. — Ellie… That’s not junk, those are my childhood treasures. My “Love Is” bubblegum wrapper collection is somewhere in there, I’ll have you know. Can you imagine what riches await? — Oh my god. You kept gum wrappers. Since what year? Ellie snorted, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter. This café, with its well-worn plum-coloured sofas and eternally misted-up windows, had long since become their territory. The waitress, Mari, no longer asked what they wanted—she just put a cappuccino down for him, a latte for her, and the day’s dessert to share. Fifteen years of friendship had turned this into ritual. — Alright, I’ll admit it, — said Ian, saluting with his mug — the garage can wait. My treasures too. Kieran’s invited us for a barbecue on Sunday, if you’re keen. — I know. He spent three hours yesterday picking out a new grill online. Three. Hours. I thought my eyes would glaze over with boredom. Their laughter melted into the hum of the coffee machine and the quiet buzz from other tables… …There were never any awkward silences or unspoken words between them—they knew each other as well as they knew their own hands. Ellie remembered when skinny Year 8 Ian, with perpetually untied laces, was the first to greet her in a new class. Ian remembered she was the only one who didn’t mock his chunky specs. Kieran had accepted their friendship from the very start, without question or suspicion. He watched his wife and her childhood friend with the calm of someone who trusts completely. On Friday nights of Monopoly and Uno, Kieran laughed loudest when Ian lost to his wife at Scrabble yet again, and topped up everyone’s tea while the other two argued over the rules of charades. — He’s cheating, that’s why he always wins, — Ellie announced once, tossing playing cards at her husband. — It’s called strategy, my love, — Kieran retorted, unruffled, as he gathered the scattered cards. Ian watched them with a fond smile. He liked Kieran—steady, reliable, with such dry wit you never knew when he was joking. Ellie blossomed around her husband, became softer, happier, and Ian celebrated her joy the way only a true friend could. That balance shifted when Vera came into their world… …Kieran’s sister turned up on their doorstep a month ago, eyes red with exhaustion and determined to begin afresh. The divorce had drained her completely, leaving only bitterness and an aching emptiness where some semblance of stability had once been. On the first evening Ian came round for their usual board game, Vera looked up from her phone and sized him up like some distant mechanism had been triggered inside her. Here stood a man—calm, kind-eyed, with a smile you couldn’t help but return. — This is Ian, my mate from school, — Ellie introduced. — And this is Vera, Kieran’s sister. — Lovely to meet you, — Ian said, offering a hand. Vera held it a second longer than necessary. — Likewise. From then on, Vera’s “accidental” appearances became routine. She’d show up at their favourite café at exactly the time Ellie and Ian were there. She’d float into the room with a plate of biscuits just as Ian arrived. She’d squeeze in dangerously close at the board game table, shoulders brushing. — Could you pass me that card? — Vera leaned over his arm, her hair “accidentally” brushing his neck. — Oops, sorry. Ian would politely draw away, murmuring something mild. Ellie exchanged glances with her husband, but Kieran only shrugged—Vera had always been a bit much. It became blatant. Vera steadily fixed her gaze on Ian, showered him with compliments, found any excuse to touch his arm. She laughed at his jokes so loudly Ellie’s ears rang. — You’ve such beautiful hands, so long and elegant. Play piano? — Vera caught his hand one night over the Scrabble tiles. — Um, I’m a software engineer. — Still beautiful. Ian gently pulled away, staring at his cards with exaggerated focus. He blushed. By the third invite for a “friendly chat over coffee,” Ian gave in. He liked Vera—she was lively, fun, vibrant. Maybe, he thought, if they actually dated, she’d stop giving him that hungry look and things could just go back to normal. The first weeks of their romance went well—Vera was beaming, Ian relaxed, family evenings became normal again. Then Vera noticed what she’d rather not. She saw Ian brighten when Ellie entered. How his face opened around her. How easily they picked up each other’s jokes, finished each other’s sentences, shared a connection she could never reach. Jealousy bloomed in Vera’s chest. — Why do you see her all the time? — Vera blocked Ian’s path, arms folded. — She’s my friend. Fifteen years, Vera. That’s— — I’m your girlfriend! Me! Not her! The rows came in waves. Vera cried, accused, demanded. Ian explained, pleaded. — You think about her more than me! — Vera, that’s just not true. We’re just friends. — Just friends don’t look at each other like that! Ian’s phone buzzed every time he was with Ellie. — Where are you? When are you back? Why aren’t you answering? With her again? He learned to mute it, but Vera started turning up—in the café, the park, outside Ellie’s house—flustered, eyes blazing with jealous tears. — Vera, please — Ian rubbed his temples. — This is crazy. — Crazy is you spending more time with someone else’s wife than your own girlfriend! Ellie was exhausted too. Every meet-up became a trial—when would Vera appear, with what fresh accusations, what drama? — Maybe I should see you less… — Ellie started. But Ian cut her off: — No. Absolutely not. You are not reorganising your life for her tantrums. None of us are. But Vera had already decided: if honesty wouldn’t work, she’d bend the truth. Kieran was in the kitchen when Vera breezed in. — Big brother, I need to tell you something. I really didn’t want to, but… you deserve the truth… …She spun her story in careful doses, sobbing in all the right places. Secret meetings, lingering looks, Ian supposedly holding Ellie’s hand when no one was looking. Kieran listened in silence, giving nothing away. When Ellie and Ian walked in an hour later, the atmosphere in the lounge was thick as syrup. Kieran lounged in his armchair with the expression of a man expecting a show. — Sit, — he motioned to the sofa. — My sister’s just told me a rather… fascinating story about your secret affair. Ellie froze mid-step. Ian stiffened. — What the hell… — She claims to have witnessed some compromising things. Vera shrank into her seat, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Ian spun round so suddenly that Vera recoiled. — That’s enough, Vera. I should have drawn the line ages ago! His face was ashen with fury—the ever-calm, patient Ian now simmering over. — We’re through. Right now. — You can’t— Her tears, for once, were real. — It’s her! — Vera jabbed a finger at Ellie. — It’s always her! You always choose her! Ellie let the silence stretch, allowing her sister-in-law to let it all out. — You know, Vera, — she said quietly, — if you hadn’t tried to manage every second of his life, if you didn’t make scenes out of nothing, none of this would’ve happened. You destroyed what you were trying to keep. Vera snatched her handbag and stormed out, slamming the door. Kieran burst out laughing at last—genuine, head thrown back, amusement pouring out. — Good grief, finally. He pulled Ellie in, arm around her shoulders. — You didn’t believe her, did you? — Ellie pressed her nose to his neck. — Not for a second. I’ve watched you two for years. It’s like brother and sister squabbling over the last biscuit. Ian let out a long breath as the tension finally broke. — Sorry for dragging you into this circus. — Don’t be. Vera’s a grown woman—it’s her own responsibility. Now let’s eat. The lasagne’s getting cold, and I won’t reheat it just because of someone else’s drama. Ellie laughed softly, relief in her voice. Her family was whole. Her friendship with Ian survived. And her husband had once again proved his trust was ironclad. They headed for the kitchen, where golden lasagne gleamed beneath the lamps—and the world slid easily, quietly, back into place.